I Believe
by musicforlife101
Summary: A collection of drabbles, i think because my fanfic lingo is not very good, of varying length based on an email I got from my mom and various quotes. Everyone included. Mike/Fi elements. Rating for situations and language in later chapters.
1. Fighting

**I opened one of those chain emails my mom sent me and it was just so touching I had to write something for it. So this is just a series of one-shots that may or may not be related and are based off the ideas in each part of the email. The exact quote will be in italics at the tope of each chapter.**

**Disclaimer: I sadly don't own Burn Notice. Nor do I own Jeffrey Donovan, Gabrielle Anwar, Bruce Campbell, or Sharon Gless, though I wouldn't mind it one bit. =]**

**This first chap is set in season 2 while Fi is with Campbell, but it doesn't relate to any particular episode.**

_I believe… that just because two people argue, it doesn't mean they don't love each other. And just because they don't argue, it doesn't mean they do love each other._

It had been a cakewalk job, for once. An easy two grand for each of them, but Michael had gone off in the end without back up or even telling anyone. It was stupid and he knew it, but it didn't seem like it was that big of a deal to him at the time. He was regretting it as Fiona picked a fight in his mother's backyard.

Nate had been involved in this one, and was standing just outside the door with Sam, watching them argue angrily. "I can not believe you, Michael!" Fi screamed at him for the third time. "You run off like you have nothing to lose! What would we have done if they had killed you?! Huh?! 'Sorry Madeline, but we don't know where your other son is. He ran off like an idiot and might have gotten himself shot up by a gang.' Is that what you wanted us to tell your mother?!" she continued, mocking him as she had an imaginary conversation with his mother, who was in the house away from their fighting.

"I'm more careful than that Fiona! If I wasn't I would have been dead twenty, maybe thirty, years ago! I've dealt with worse than that guy and you know it! I dealt with you back in the day!" Michael yelled back. They were standing on either side of a large ice chest Madeline had asked they carry from the garage to the porch.

Their yelling continued as the men on the porch began to converse. "Should we stop them?" Nate asked, worried about Fiona's violent tendencies, not to mention his brother's penchant for fighting. He had always been good at that when they were kids.

"Nah. They'll be fine. This is just how they are," Sam replied, used to their constant struggle.

The younger Westen turned to look at his brother's friend. "You told me they always come back to each other. They look like they hate each other and you tell me they love each other. How does that work?" he asked. It was a valid question, considering Michael and Fiona's complicated working and personal relationship, which they seemed to have difficulty separating most of the time.

"Just because they argue doesn't mean they don't love each other. If they didn't argue, they wouldn't be Mike and Fi. You should know by now that they're both stubborn. It would take a lot more than a screaming match to do any permanent damage to their relationship. We haven't dealt with anything that can complicate it any more than it was originally, so I think they'll be fine. It might take a little while, but they'll be fine," Sam replied, confident in his answer despite the fact that he had to raise his voice to be heard over the fight taking place a couple yards away.

Michael visibly slumped. Fiona had said something, but neither Sam nor Nate had heard it. Whatever it was, it had hit Mike like a ton of bricks. The ex-spy sighed. "I'm sorry, Fi. Thank you for worrying about me. I'll try not to do something I know is stupid next time. Ok?" he acquiesced. She seemed alright with his answer, but was, surprisingly, not smug. It wasn't the kind of argument you want to win. It was the kind that makes you feel bad about it after, like you just want to curl yourself into the arms of someone who cares and forgive all their wrongs because being angry hurts too much. Because being angry means acknowledging that you were worried and that hurts, too.

So she just nodded and let the hands that had been firmly planted on her hips fall to her sides. She delicately perched herself on the ice chest and sighed, wanting to simultaneously run as far away as she could get as fast as her feet would carry her and curl up in Michael's embrace. Neither was an option, so she sat there and let the heavy silence envelope them. "Campbell will be here soon to pick me up," she said, using it to excuse herself to the bathroom to freshen up.

Nate and Sam both wanted to make sure he was alright, but they knew it would be more trouble than they could handle. Of course he wasn't alright, but he would always be just fine in front of everyone. He had a high tolerance for pain, though his physical was a bit higher than his emotional, and he always had. They had left Michael in the backyard with his troubles and had retreated to the living room with a couple of beers by the time Campbell had arrived. He knocked on the door and waited anxiously for Nate to open it, like a teenager going to pick up a girl for a date and being terrified of her father. It was almost amusing for Michael, who had migrated to the kitchen and was surreptitiously watching.

Fiona nearly skipped through the house in an attempt to get the door. She treated Madeline's home as a third home (the loft was her second, if not first) and was welcomed to because Michael's mother just happened to have a soft spot for her. Of course, Nate was up and answering the door before Fiona could even get into the room. There was a subtle stare down on his end and Campbell averted his gaze slightly. He shook hands with the younger man and said how nice it was to see Sam again. Madeline introduced herself as Michael's mom, causing the newcomer to ask where the aforementioned man was. He appeared from the kitchen, almost every trace of guilt from their fight erased from his features. The only ones left were so ingrained he barely registered their existence and so well hidden only Fiona could clearly tell why the slight lines in his forehead were only slightly darker and why the twinkle in his eyes had dulled just a bit. A careful observer with less history, though, may only notice the physiological changes.

She told them all goodbye and sent a tiny glance at Michael who replied with an almost imperceptible nod that told her everything she needed to know. If she was okay with his answer in the yard, he would hold up his end. She figured it would probably happen again, but him trying was better than nothing at all so she agreed. He gave a false smile of approval and watched as the door closed and all that could be heard was, "I'm sorry I'm late," from Campbell. And, "Oh, it's alright. I was just talking with Michael," from Fiona, in a simple voice that made him long for the good old days.

"You know, just because they don't fight, it doesn't mean the do love each other," Madeline said quietly as she moved around him and into the kitchen. It was so quiet he almost missed it. A small sigh escaped his lips and he let his head nod of its own accord. He knew she was right, but that didn't make fighting with Fiona any easier. But, then again, when was anything with Fiona ever easy, except the falling in love part. That was far too easy.


	2. Friends Change

**Takes place during the Pilot, during the first meeting with Sam.**

_I believe… that we don't have to change friends if we understand that friends change._

Sam had always like alcohol. That was something Michael remembered from back when they had worked together. They worked together a lot during the mid-nineties. Sure they had done a few jobs before '95, but that was it and there had been only a few after '98 or so. No matter when it was, though, Sam had enjoyed a good drink or five after an op. The number depended on the outcome of that particular mission. Sometimes Michael joined him and sometimes he watched from 300 yards away with a nice pair of binoculars. There was a time in Bulgaria when, in the end, the op had finally turned out well and Sam had bought a round for the entire team, including Michael. He'd indulged that time and celebrated with the others.

Of course there was that mission in Brazil in '02, one of their last. It had been going well and he had needed to go back to Ireland for a couple of days before continuing the mission. Of course, when Mike had got back it was in a much different state and it hadn't gone well in the end. The two of them had sat in a crappy airport bar that night and drank a lot more than they should have. Their flight was late enough the next morning for them to sober up somewhat and they were both fairly quiet drunks at times like those. Losing men was never easy. Not then, not ever.

Despite their various run ins with alcohol over the years, Michael had never expected his old buddy to call himself "a washout and a drunk" in plain conversation. But he understood that people change their habits, likes, dislikes, names, faces, histories, but they could never change who they really were under all of that.

Sam was still the best friend he had. The only friend he had at the moment, unless you count Fiona; and Michael didn't at that point because she was usually either his girlfriend or wanted him dead. He realized quickly that Sam was his best friend, not just in the moment either. There were very few people in the world who would come to his aid at a time like this, and that was evidenced by the general unwillingness of so many to even take his calls.

Friends change with time, but then again so do you. They stay your friends no matter what, if they really are your friends. That was something Michael would always be grateful for. He still had his best friend.


	3. Forgiveness

**This takes place just before and just after the first chapter.**

_I believe… that no matter how good a friend is, they're going to hurt you every once in a while and you must forgive them for that._

So Mike had lied and left things out. Oh well, it wasn't the first time, but that didn't make the little nagging feeling of hurt, and almost betrayal, go away. It definitely stung when a friend you'd always counted on to be honest and candid up and lied about something so important. Maybe he needed to branch out and remember that he could do things on his own. Maybe he needed elbow room and space to breathe. Or maybe he was just a little discontent with life and was trying to get as close to the fast lane as he could.

Fiona was going to let him have it, of that Sam was sure. She would ream him until the cows came home, and since Madeline had no cows, that could be a while. If Fiona was going to do all the yelling and screaming, maybe Sam could just skip that part. He was never very good at it anyway. It would be easier to just accept Mike as himself and forgive his brief and unintentional lapse in judgment.

Nate wouldn't understand it in the same way. Madeline would just be worried. Fiona would hide her worry, hurt, and anger with more anger. It was his job to forgive, but never forget. Mike had enough people who loved him, pissed. He didn't need any more. In fact, he'd probably met his quota for the year and maybe even the year after that.

So after the screaming was over and Fiona had left with Campbell, Sam clapped his friend on the shoulder and looked him in the eye. "Don't worry, Mikey. Things will turn out fine," he said simply, trying to be the supportive friend. He was graced with a silent nod and almost smile that told him he had accomplished his goal.

A few hours later, after assuring Madeline everything was fine, they were headed back to the loft to sit and drink a couple of beers. Sam was on his third, Nate his second, and Michael had just finished his first when a car pulled up outside the warehouse, the gate was forced open, and the car pulled in. A door slammed, then another and then clanging up the stairs. "Not terribly careful," Sam commented.

"Probably not hiding," Nate replied, taking another sip of his beer. Michael, being the most sober, was on alert, but agreed with his brother. Anyone that sloppy could probably be bested by three inebriated men, one an ex-SEAL, one an ex-spy, and the other a guy who had more than a few enemies. That is, if whoever it was, was an adversary at all. There was a pounding on the door and Michael jumped up to get it, setting his beer down on the table made from an industrial spool.

Upon opening the door he saw something he really didn't expect. Campbell was standing there with Fiona lying in his arms. At first Michael was worried something had happened, but when he heard her even breathing he knew exactly the problem, though why they were on his doorstep he didn't know. "Uh, hi," the man stumbled. Michael stepped aside to welcome him into the loft. "Can I…?" he asked, trailing off as he gestured Fiona's tiny frame at the bed in the middle of the floor. The spy nodded and closed the door, before offering his guest a chair and a beer. Campbell politely declined saying he had to drive home.

"Not to sound rude, but why are you here?" Mike asked, calmly taking a sip to cover his worry or agitation, he wasn't sure which.

"We were out and Fiona seems to think she holds tequila better than she does. I don't know. She got really drunk and asked to come here. She said something about forgiving you and gave me directions here before she passed out. That's all I've got. If you need me to, I can take her home," the other man answered, a bit uncharacteristically. He seemed to be fine just talking with the guys. Maybe if he wasn't her boy toy, they could've gotten along.

"She's fine. It'll be interesting in the morning, but she's fine here. Thanks for taking care of her," Mike replied with a note of protectiveness and finality. Campbell nodded and thanked them as he hurried out the door and down the stairs. An hour later, after some horrid instant coffee and a little sobering up, Nate said goodbye and drove home.

"You mind if I crash on your couch Mike, or were you going to use it?" Sam asked.

"Go ahead. I'm going to stay down here. I'll see you in the morning Sam," he replied as Sam walked up the stairs and took his spot on the brown couch up there. Down on the main level, Michael carefully removed Fiona's shoes, took her hair down, removed her bracelets and earrings, and covered her up. He set all of her things on the table beside the bed and then he reclined in his green chair for the night.

About an hour later, he was awoken by the sound of Fi stirring. She was still fairly intoxicated, but more coherent than she had been, according to Campbell. "Michael?" she slurred in the familiar lilt he loved.

"Yeah, Fi?" he answered quietly. She hadn't really moved, or even opened her eyes, just spoke to him from her spot on the bed.

"I forgive you for ditching us and I'm sorry about the fight earlier," she managed to say. She still thought he was mad at her and she wanted him to know she wasn't. It made sense considering the knowledge gained in their business that the last time you see someone may be the last time ever.

"Me, too, Fi. Go to sleep," he instructed. Finally, a slight nod and then nothing but even breathing. Michael settled back into the green chair and waited for morning to come. When it finally did, it was a lot louder than Michael had expected. The problem with Fiona being a bit of a lightweight about her tequila, and some other hard liquors, but don't remind her of that, is that she tended to not remember anything after a while.

"Michael!" she called loudly, abruptly waking him from a very nice dream about a peaceful beach in Mexico. His eyes opened and he nearly groaned as the bright morning sun assaulted his unadjusted retinas. "Why the hell am I here?!"

Oh, yeah, that. "Campbell brought you here last night. You were rambling about coming here, gave him directions and then passed out." No need for her to know her boyfriend was now well aware they had been fighting and not just talking.

Realization dawned as evidenced by the expression on her face and the slight, uncharacteristic flush of embarrassment. It wasn't directed at Michael, of that he was sure, because he knew her better than almost anyone and was quite familiar with drunk-Fiona. She was actually kind of fun, in a crazier-than-usual sort of way. The embarrassment was because she remembered what she'd said to him and to her boyfriend the night before and it wasn't something she would have normally been comfortable saying aloud. "Sorry about that," she said, trying to sound casual.

Michael just shrugged. "You know you can come here anytime you want or need to, in any state. Drunk, hurt, cold, whatever. If you give me twenty minutes to grab a shower and change I'll drive you home," he suggested. She just nodded and headed over to his kitchen for a glass of water and some aspirin, well Tylenol really because aspirin had always made her sick and Michael was well aware of that.

A little less than a half an hour later, Fi was feeling a bit better and Michael was fresh out of the shower and dressed in a pair of jeans and a blue t-shirt. She had her shoes and jewelry back on and was ready to go. The drive to her condo wasn't too long considering the early morning, but it felt like forever in the pregnant silence between them. He pulled up outside and she opened her door, intending to thank him before going inside, but his voice stopped her.

He didn't really turn to her, but his words were pointed that direction. "I really am sorry, Fi." That was all he said. There was no move to touch her (a dangerous thing for more than one reason) or say anything else. He simply waited for her to leave the Charger and enter her building.

"Me, too. Thanks for the ride," she replied. He nodded and watched until she was safely through the doors and the curtains in her living room had been opened. He could see them in the window from where he was parked. Only then did he drive off, back to the loft and maybe another hour of sleep on a real bed. Then he was going to have a long talk with a relatively hungover Sam Axe about all the forgiving he had done over the years. It seemed, finally, that Michael understood.


	4. Friendship Grows

**This is set after Mike leaves Fi, but before Sam retires and before the burn notice.**

_I believe… that true friendship grows, even over the longest distance. Same goes for true love._

Leaving people was what he did. If he had to list the things he was good at from worst to best they would be: talking about relationships, relationships, staying put, cooking, tactical analysis, hand-to-hand combat, and leaving. He rarely tossed that into the list, though. For good reasons; most people he had that sort of conversation with already knew how good he was at it and those who didn't, well, he would prefer they not find out just yet, and it was a sore subject.

The wound was still fresh, too many of them were. Sam would be retiring soon and get to live somewhere nice for a while, until he got bored. Fiona was thousands of miles away and probably wanted nothing more than to watch him die. He didn't blame her, even if he had good reasons for leaving. Everyone he tried so hard to keep from caring about was far from him and he missed that kind of human contact.

Despite what he knew she thought, it was Fiona or no one for him. That's not to say he wouldn't sleep with someone for information or to satisfy a cover or because he was lonely, but it never meant anything and his heart had only ever been fully in it with Fi. He wondered if she knew that. And he was sure Sam would disagree, but his SEAL team was the best to work with in Michael's opinion. They were good; they were strong; and they welcomed him. He hoped his friend would believe him one day.

Even thousands of miles apart, he knew each day that Sam was more his friend than the day before and if he ever needed something, that would be the old buddy to call. Sure he was loud and cheesy and sometimes obnoxious, but a friend is a friend and that doesn't end just because you're on the other side of the globe.

Just as far physically, but even more so emotionally, was Fiona. His love for her grew by the day, much the same. He would see a petite woman walking down the street and look back at her face, only to see that it wasn't her at all. It reminded him how much he missed her. He would exchange letters with Liam, her eldest brother, and that made him think of her, too. It wasn't ever something he thought would happen to him, but it had. Above all things, he hoped she knew that he loved her, that he loved her more each day, and that he would always love her. Of course, reality told him that she didn't because he was so terrible at talking about relationships.

Throughout the course of his life, those were the most important of his interpersonal relationships with people who weren't family. They had become so close by that time, though, they had practically become family. Sam was his brother and Fiona was his…something, significant other. He smiled at that simple thought as he laid his head against the pillow and drifted off, trying to dream of the good old days.


	5. Heartache

**Parts of it are right after Michael leaves Fiona. The rest has no particular place so try not to assign a time to it. It will probably just confuse you. It confused me. lol**

_I believe… that you can do something in an instant that will give you heartache for life._

Sitting there on the airplane out of Ireland, Michael stared blankly at the Sky Mall magazine and pondered what he had just done. In doing the one thing he was most sure of, he had made a decision that he was quite sure would be haunting him until he was dead. Leaving Fiona behind and in the dark about his safety and whereabouts was one of the hardest and easiest things he'd ever done.

She was in danger because of him and he couldn't have that, so he'd left and moved the heat onto him and not her. But he loved her and he knew she cared about him. It would break her heart and his to leave. They weren't normal people though, so instead of rebound relationships and meaningless blind dates, they threw themselves into work and he knew this.

In Miami, she used the discussion of that painful time to get what she wanted. When Bly had the loft bugged, she had used it to talk about their relationship, but it still hurt the both of them. It was a touchy subject.

Even into the future when they were done running and had maybe managed to settle down as much as they knew how and had a couple of kids, he was sure it would come back to haunt them. Maybe an old associate he had been escaping would come back for revenge after a few decades. Maybe Fiona would bring it up. Maybe the kids would ask about their past. He could always leave it out, but he had never liked lying to children.

Whatever way it came about, he was sure it would come back when he least wanted or needed the advice of one incident that happened to shape their relationship from then on and haunt his dreams on some of the more lonely nights as a spy. He wondered if they haunted hers, too.

Waking up that morning, something had felt off even before Fi had opened her eyes. The bed next to her was cold, suggesting he was long gone. Every trace of him was removed from the apartment except a few extra t-shirts and one pair of pajama pants she'd found stuffed in her drawers. He had never kept much other than clothes and weapons. All their furniture was rented and he kept anything he needed on him most of the time. The only real difference, a note in the loosest sense, was a handful of hairpins missing. She wouldn't have noticed them normally, but she'd just got a new pack of them the day before and suddenly ten were gone. She knew what he would use them for in case of an emergency, which meant he would probably be going to a country lacking in hardware stores with an abundance of materials that could be transformed into weapons very easily, or where he was expecting to need them.

There was nothing else about the apartment that would appear strange to an outsider, but to her it was empty. Almost nothing of him remained, but if she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, she could smell the faint scent of him in their room. The shirts smelled like him, too, so they were very well taken care of.

At the time she had no idea it would be years before she saw him again. She hoped it would be a few months, a year at most like before and she feared it would be forever, but the middle ground had never come to mind. That split second choice to sit up in bed and leave instead of waking her had managed to cause more personal problems than the professional ones it solved.

So as they sat there in the loft, seven years to the day after the night he left, they just pondered. They were both off in their own little worlds thinking of the same thing. Carefully rising from his seat, Michael turned toward her. "I'm sorry, Fi," he said softly, bending to kiss her soundly on the forehead. Then he turned and left his loft. She just sat and watched the door close. When he returned later, she was still sitting there, hoping it wouldn't happen again and that the last three years hadn't been a dream. "From what I can tell it seems like I'm not going anywhere for quite some time, Fiona," he said as he opened two beers. It was a lazy and melancholy night as no more words were used and the only effort exerted was to drink or open the next bottle.

_When mementos can get you killed, you learn to remember everything important and sometimes it doesn't shut off. So, for a spy whose memory has taken in too many things, anniversaries can be tough to brush off. Which is why sitting at the table with Fi, drinking, was the best way to spend it._


	6. Who I Want to Be

**When I first read it, I thought I would like this for Madeline better, but then I decided it fit for Michael after the season 2 finale, and since the premiere aired I guess it's sort of AU now, but I noticed a few lines during the phone conversation between Mike and Fi that are similar to this and ones that aren't. But I wrote this before it aired, so it's just a coincidence. So that's what I got. MichaelPOV.**

_I believe… that it's taking me a long time to become the person I want to be._

I'd finally done it. After all this time. Years of being jerked around when I was on their good side and years of being in danger after the burn notice, and I finally said "screw you" to the man with the plan, or at least as much as I could tell. I just wanted him out of my life. At this point, I'm past caring if I get my job back. I mean, sure I would **really** love to have my job back, but it would be nice to just not have government agents thwarting me at every turn or be able to leave Miami for the first time in two years (aside from Carla dropping me in the middle of a airstip somewhere north of here).

Swimming back to shore in the remains of my suit, I realized that I had finally hit a milestone in becoming the person I now wanted to be. The person Fiona and Sam and my mother and Lucy and even Nate had always known I could be. The kind of person who helped people and cared and got the job done and done right because of all of that. A few years ago, I would have told you that such a person could not exist, but now I find myself leaning toward that more and more. I try to say I do it for the money or because my friends need me, but the fact that I truly will call them my friends now is a testament to how much crap all that justification is.

When I finally made it to shore I was sure that what I really needed to work on was appreciating what I had. I didn't want to end up like Victor, a man I had grown to like and admire in the last 24 hours or so. I would have to protect the ones I loved and not take the fact that they were still alive for granted. What would I do if I lost my mom or Nate or Sam? I already had a clue as to what would happen if I lost Fiona. We'd had much to close a call not long ago and what worried me most was that I had no idea what I was going to do after getting back to the loft. I'm glad I never had to find out because she was sitting there like the miracle I sometimes still believe she is. It's her own warped sort of miracle, but it's a miracle nonetheless.

There was a payphone on the sidewalk and I dialed a collect call to Sam's cell. Fiona and I would have to get new ones soon, but that could be dealt with later. "Hey Sam," I greeted, telling him to find my mom, make sure she was safe, come pick me up and to bring towels. He didn't even bother to ask why I would need them. He figured I'd jumped out of the helicopter, something not known to the beachgoers I had passed, the vast majority of which had given me odd looks before returning to their rigorous tanning regimens.

While I waited, I walked away from the beach to sit on a brightly colored bench. What I expected to see in a few minutes was Sam pulling up in his car or Fi in the Saab. I didn't expect to see my ex?-girlfriend drive up in my Charger, which she had, thankfully, saved from the parking garage I had left it in. Through the open passenger window, she was brandishing a fluffy towel that had definitely come from her place, not mine, at me. The seat was covered with a towel obviously from my loft, just so we wouldn't have to clean up all the seawater later. As we drove in the direction of my mother's house, I pulled off my shirt and tried to dry off as much as I could. Wondering if I would have anything to change into, I looked at Fi. I had never been exceptionally fond of her driving my car, though I'm not sure if I disliked it more if I was in it or not, but she seemed to be focused on getting me there alive.

That was definitely a good thing. It would really suck to make all these plans to be the person I wanted to be and then to die in a car accident hours later. "There's a t-shirt and jeans in the back for you when we get to your mom's," she said without needing to hear my question. She already knew I would want to change. Wet clothes, with the exception of a swimsuit, are not fun when the temperature is 95 and so is the relative humidity. Water doesn't really evaporate all that much when the air is that saturated to begin with.

"Thanks Fi," I replied, wondering if I should say more. By the time we reached the house and noticed that Sam hadn't returned with my mom yet, I was sure I should say something else. So we gathered our things and went inside. For some reason Fi had a key to this house as well, I'm sure my mother just wanted her to have it in case of emergencies, but that was still a little disturbing. I dried myself off and changed in the bathroom before rejoining Fiona in the living room. "Fi," I began uncertainly. "I just wanted to tell you that I appreciate everything that you've done for me. Past, present, future. I've lost count of the number of times you've saved my ass, or helped me cover it, or laughed it off with me. I realized that I don't tell you that enough."

For a moment I wasn't sure if she was going to kiss me or slap me or both. When she decided her reaction, she wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled me down to meet her in what was probably one of the most emotionally charged kisses of our entire relationship. My arms were holding her waist tightly to me and she easily broke the kiss to just hold onto me. Not another word was spoken about it, but I felt I had just taken another huge step toward the person I wanted to be, soon.

**I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about this and I might rewrite it later, or write another one and add it on near the end. But for now, this is what I have.**


	7. Loving Words

_I believe…that you should always leave loved ones with loving words. It may be the last time you see them._

Warzone didn't even begin to describe the situation they were in. They had been living in Belfast at the time, but they were by no means close to home. The fight had extended far beyond their hotel room where it had begun. "I don't give a fuck what you think, Michael! I am doing this deal whether you like it or not!" she shouted at him once they were inside the warehouse where the aforementioned deal was to take place. "If you don't like it, you can wait outside."

"Maybe I will!" he replied harshly. Fighting was nothing new for them, but what happened next was not standard procedure. He really did walk out, just as the sellers arrived. He could tell they were meaner and more violent than the guys Fiona had described. Or perhaps she didn't know. He decided to show them in and test the waters. From her expression, she hadn't known. For that reason only, he stayed.

During much of the negotiations, she treated him a bit like a butler. Whether this was to satisfy an existing cover or to spite him, he couldn't tell, but the latter was being accomplished very well. That is, until the sellers cleared out of the deal and left a case sitting on the floor. Both of them knew what it meant and, considering how long it had taken them to notice, there wasn't much time.

Without a word, they both cleared out, but Michael went back. He was so sure he could disarm it, but that left Fiona turning from side to side in the street looking for him in a panic. Inside the warehouse, Michael realized there was no way he could defuse the bomb quickly enough.

_Boom!_ The unmistakable sound of a bomb blowing up a warehouse. Fiona hit the deck and watched the smoke curl from the building. There was no Michael rushing to her to, annoyingly, but endearingly, check her for injuries. Not even after waiting until most of the people nearby had fled. And the last words she had really said to him were in anger.

At last, she pulled herself to a sitting position on the curb and waited. She didn't know what she was waiting for, but she was waiting anyway. "You alright, Fi?" a familiar voice asked form behind her. When she turned she saw Michael standing there, covered in dust and smoke and with a few scrapes on his face and arms.

"I thought I'd lost you," she said as she buried herself in his chest. It was so unlike her, but he knew why. It was the same reason people said to never go to bed angry.

It was the same reason that, from that day on, she said 'be careful' or something to that effect before he left on a job. She didn't want anger to be the last thing he ever heard from her.


	8. After You Think You Can't

**This takes place between Michael leaving the burning house in Hot Spot and showing up at the loft. I know I've done this scenario before, but it just fit here.**

_I believe…that you can keep going long after you think you can't._

"She's…She's…" he started as the firemen pushed him away. What had he been trying to say? His mind could supply so many words to fit that emotion, but none of them were strong enough. She's gone. She's there. She's…everything. Without her he had no idea what to do. This was a completely new emotion for him.

Sure, he'd felt that rush of panic when he hadn't been certain she'd made it out of a building that was being raided by people who wanted to kill her, or when he wasn't sure she'd gotten far enough away before something blew up. But he had never been this terrified and lost before, because her soft lilt in his ear was never more than a few seconds behind his fear. Now it would never come again and all he could get was her voicemail.

He threw the Charger into gear and drove off, not minding traffic laws. Unless she miraculously appeared, he didn't know if he could keep going. The people he used to work with would say he was going soft, but he wondered if he would have reacted the same if this had happened in Dublin or Belfast.

Michael wasn't paying any attention to where he was going and ended up just driving circles around Miami for a few hours. Trying to clear his head was obviously a failure since he was more depressed than he had been before. No answer on her phone and no calls back. In a rare show of intense emotion, tears rolled down his face.

There was no moving on, in his mind, but he knew Fiona would want him to keep tracking down his burn notice, or, more likely, helping people in Miami and having lunch with his mom. He just didn't think he could do that without her.

As he drove, he thought more and more about wrapping his car around a palm tree or telephone pole, or just driving into oncoming traffic and hoping. He could always just drive off the pier or shoot himself, but that just screamed of suicide. It would hurt his mother less if it looked like an accident. But he couldn't. He had to go on because that's what Fiona would have wanted.

So, at the end of the longest day of his life, he pulled up to the loft in the pouring rain. It was fitting, really. The water masked the tears from no one, but it made him feel a little better. It almost seemed like the heavens were mourning, too. He forced the door open and then shut, overwhelmed by her scent as he stepped into the room. She was there so much; he figured that it must have become part of the loft by that time.

A soft lilt filled his ear from across the room. The one he had been waiting for all evening. He was sure it was just a cruel trick of his pained mind, but he looked anyway and there she sat almost as if nothing had happened. She was rambling on about something he didn't hear as he crossed the loft to stand in front of her and just touch her face to be sure she was real. She was. "Michael, you didn't think…" she trailed off, but he had. He had been so sure and so scared.

He leant his head down to rest against her forehead. Then suddenly it wasn't enough. A tentative, but passionate kiss followed by a desperate one covering all the emotions he had cycled through plus relief. It was that night, lying awake while she slept, that he realized he could go on long after he though he couldn't…because of her.


	9. Responsibility

**I thought about this for a while because I couldn't decide who would be best, it fits everyone so well, but then I remembered something I wrote for another story that's not posted yet and thought this might fit there. So it's pre-series, when Michael leaves Samantha. Not really sure how I feel about it though.**

_I believe…that we are responsible for what we do, no matter how we feel._

He had just walked out. It wasn't exactly a puff of smoke like he could have used, but he'd still left without giving her any information. He just said goodbye and left. Now he was sitting in a hotel room across town waiting for Dan to call him. He really wished his handler would hurry up because all this waiting was making him think.

Samantha's heart would be broken, but he didn't love her, not really. That would surely have hurt more in the long run, for both of them. Michael still knew he had to take responsibility for breaking her heart. It didn't matter that he was in love with someone else. Responsibility, though, was a lot easier to take than a lifetime of regret and unhappiness. None of that made it any less painful to know that a woman he at least cared about on some level was in pain.

But he could justify it. She really didn't understand him. She couldn't get inside his head the way Fiona had after only two weeks. Fiona was a nice balance to him, while Samantha was far too much like him. Well, except that she was a thief. Actually, Fiona was a thief, too. What did that say about him? He chuckled to himself in the dark hotel room.

_Well,_ he thought, _I'm responsible for leaving Sam, but I'm also responsible for going back to Fi, and that's good enough for me._


	10. Attitude

**This contains a few OCs. Fiona's brothers because in my imagination she has a large family with a couple of brothers. This is about the one she didn't get along so well with. Set pre-series.**

_I believe…that either you control your attitude or it controls you._

Fiona was eighteen, an adult. No one, not even her brothers, could tell her what to do and actually expect to be heeded, not that they had really expected to be heeded before. Liam, the oldest, had long since given up trying to persuade her and Aidan, the third oldest, was pretty much with him on that. The younger siblings had no place in the argument, but Blaine, the second child, felt he had to compensate for his brothers.

"No, Fiona!" he demanded. That was the final straw. Her face was set in determination and Liam and Aidan backed as far away as they could. She hadn't lost a fight to Blaine in over a decade and they didn't want to be responsible for breaking it up.

In a low, dangerous voice she replied, "Yes, I am." This time, she waited for him to throw the first punch, rather than acting impulsive and hasty as she had with him in the past. She would show him she was just as fit as him, if not more so, to be an IRA operative.

He swung, she dodged, she swung, he caught, she twisted, he missed, she flipped, he lost. Different dance, same ending, every single time. This time, though, she had controlled her attitude and channeled it into something productive, rather than it controlling her and causing more injury than there needed to be.

So, she didn't use that technique every time she fought someone, and that had caused her more than a few problems, but she knew she could if she needed to and that was good enough. It helped her beat her brother. It helped her plant bombs with accuracy. It helped her become a great markswoman. It helped her become the operative she had told Blaine she could be. It helped her fight with Michael. It helped her save Michael. It helped her annoy Michael. But, most of all, it helped her be herself.


	11. Unexpected Hero

**I was originally going to write this one for Sam, but I couldn't decide how I wanted to do that, so I picked Nate instead. He should be portrayed as a hero more often.**

_I believe…that heroes are the people who do what has to be done when it needs to be done, regardless of the consequences._

"You drop me off and you go. Got it?" Michael asked as his brother sped them toward the vague location Fiona had given.

"It's too late. You need me," Nate replied, not about to let his older brother deal with dangerous people on his own.

"Nate," Michael said, annoyed, "Sam and Fi are dealing with heroin smugglers. They already killed two people." There was no way he was going to let his little brother come up against such violent people.

"Yeah, sounds like it's a bad time for me to bail," Nate countered, holding his ground as he drove on.

"No, it's a perfect time for you to bail," Michael said, louder and more sure.

"Look, man, something happens to you and Mom is on my ass forever," Nate said, covering up his real reasoning. If his brother wouldn't believe that he just wanted to help, he could always trick him. "Alright? And not to get into your business, but it seems like you could use the help."

Clarity. Michael understood. "Thank you," he said after a pause.

"You're welcome," Nate replied and they drove on.

So maybe his brother wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but he had a good heart and he did what was needed. So, he could be careless with money sometimes or most of the time, but he cared and did the right thing and that made him a hero. He was a hero with as many human flaws as anyone else, but, to Michael, those were the best kinds.


	12. Keeping Score

**This one relates to no specific point in time.**

_I believe…that money is a lousy way of keeping score._

Michael split the meager payment three ways and slid his into his wallet. Then he sat back in his chair at the Café Carlito and sipped his iced tea.

_~A Few Days Earlier~_

"I want to help them, Michael," Fiona had said, impassioned.

He had just sighed and nodded. "I need to put some money together, anyway."

"Uh, the money on this one is going to be a little thin. You see…" she'd continued as they walked along.

_~Present Day~_

Sam left them, saying something about a date across town, and Michael and Fiona remained. "Come on, Fi. Let's go back to the loft," he suggested, tired of watching the people walk by. She nodded and followed him to the Charger. The job had been a success, but it wasn't the success they had wanted. It was the kind of victory that almost wasn't worth having.

She had nearly been blown up by her own bomb, he had been grazed by a bullet, and Sam had barely missed an "accident" on the causeway. Add to that the near misses with their clients and it could have been very bloody. Michael hated killing someone if he could ruin their life and make them leave instead, but, as the cherry on top, he'd been forced to end two lives during this job.

Back in the loft, they sat with a yogurt each. He sat at the head of the bed in jeans and a blue t-shirt. Due to the late hour and Michael's insistence that it was too late for her to drive home, she was sprawled across most of the rest of it in one of his old grey t-shirts. It was one of those moments when everything was almost like the old days, but not.

"I'm sorry about this job, Michael," she began, not sure how to really get into what she wanted to say. "The work was bad and the pay was worse." He set down his yogurt, folded his hands in his lap and just listened to her, even though she was rambling. "But we helped those kids, you know. And no one else was going to."

"I know, Fi," he replied. "I did this for them and for you, not the money." It was true, very rarely did he do things for the money anymore.

"There used to be a Michael Westen who wouldn't have touched this job for less than five times what they paid us, and even then you would have been griping about it," she reminisced, calling back a time when almost everything Michael did for the flag was also for the money. He wouldn't steal, but his jobs paid well.

"You know, Fi, money is a lousy way to keep score," he said in a soft, quiet voice. She looked up at his face, a little confused as to when the conversation had become so philosophical and sentimental. "Moments like these are far better." He cupped her face in his hands and captured her lips in a slow, perfect kiss.

**Drop me a line and let me know what you think.**


	13. Anything or Nothing

**Again, no specific place in time.**

_I believe…that my best friend and I can do anything or nothing and have the best time._

The job was an easy one, really this time, and neither of them had seen a need to call Fiona in. She was busy with a couple of deals in Ft. Lauderdale and they could handle this on their own. So Michael and Sam had finished the job in about a day, two if you count the recon they did beforehand. Now they were sitting in the loft just drinking beer and doing nothing.

"Good day," Michael said, taking a sip.

"I'll drink to that, brother," Sam replied, settling down in his chair and taking a swig.

"Easy job, for once," the former spy joked with his friend.

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, we can do just about anything, Mikey."

The spy grinned and nodded. "Or we could just sit here and do nothing."

"Yup," Sam replied. "Good day."


	14. Get Back Up

**This is set during the Pilot. It's about the first scene with Fiona, in the motel room.**

_I believe…that sometimes the people you expect to kick you when you're down will be the ones to help you get back up._

Fiona had every right in the world to say what she said to him, and then some. She also had every right to not even come to his aid. But she had and he couldn't help but wonder, why? After what he'd done, she should be taking the free shots at him when he was physically, emotionally, and professionally injured. And yet, she didn't. Sure, she took a few cheap shots at him in witty banter, but nothing more substantial than that.

Truth be told, she was helping him, which is what she had done ever since, in some way or another. He trusted her with information about his burn notice even more than Sam. Maybe it was left over from their heydays, maybe it was because she had been there for him when he hadn't expected anyone to be, or maybe it was a little bit of both.

He wasn't sure why she had stood by him. Because she loved him? Perhaps. He knew she did, but was that really a strong enough reason? He really was sorry he'd hurt her. And he really was thankful she'd come to his rescue, though he'd never call it that aloud for fear that she wouldn't let him live it down. So instead of being mushy, he just did the little things he could to tell her he was grateful. He wasn't sure it was working, but it would have to be enough for now. One day, it would be his chance to help _her_ get back up, again.


	15. Right To Be Angry

**This is set just after Campbell breaks up with Fiona, so right after Do No Harm. FionaPOV.**

_I believe…that sometimes I have the right to be angry, but that doesn't give me right to be cruel._

I had been angry and upset with how Michael handled the whole thing about Carla and the truck she put him. He didn't call me to tell me he was alright and that we had a job. No, just the job. Like it wasn't even important that I knew he was okay.

I admit that starting to date Campbell was an act of anger and an attempt to make him jealous. I know it worked, no matter how well he hid it; I've always been able to read him like an open book.

I guess I hadn't realized how much I was flaunting Campbell until I woke up in the middle of the night from a dream I can still remember. It was the pain in his voice as he recited Proverb 27:17 to me. There was so much liberation and pain and love in his voice and then I saw his face. Not his face when he had said that, but another time, another place. It was the expression he hadn't been able to hide that I'd only seen out of the corner of my eye when he first met Campbell and we flaunted our relationship. I'll never forget that look.

I wasn't just flaunting him because I was angry, I was doing it to be vindictive and I hadn't even realized it. There was anguish in Michael's eyes every time I forced them into the same room together. He didn't want any part of that part of my life because he wouldn't share it with Campbell. I guess that makes sense, but what I did makes sense, too. I think.

I picked up my cell in the dark and punched Michael's speed dial. No matter who I was dating, it didn't mean I trusted anyone more than Michael. He picked up after the third ring. "Yeah Fi?" he asked sleepily. Of course I had woken him, it was three in the morning and we didn't have work that night.

"Sorry," I said into the receiver, ready to hang up.

"What for?" he asked back, a little more awake than before.

"Waking you. I just…" Should I tell him? "I had a dream and I needed to talk to you, but it can wait." I got it out in a rush.

"Go ahead. I'm already awake," he told me, not sounding angry about being woken.

"I just realized that I was being really mean to you about the whole Campbell thing. I didn't have to dangle him in front of your face like I did. I guess I'm just sorry for letting my anger get the better of me," I apologized, trying to figure out what I was saying as I went. I guess I hadn't really planned that far ahead when I picked up my phone.

He seemed to understand that, though. "I did some stupid things. You have a right to be angry and to do something about it." Of course he understood. Michael always understood my reasons, even if he didn't agree with them.

"But that doesn't give me the right to be cruel," I said, finally understanding myself.

I heard a sigh from the other end. He knew I'd come to the conclusion he had come to a while ago. "It's alright, Fi. Go back to sleep. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good night," I said, pausing for a moment.

"G'night," he replied, waiting for a breath or two as we let the silent I-love-you's have their moment. Then he let me hang up first and drift off into a blissfully dreamless sleep.


	16. Maturity

**This one contains another OC from the same currently unfinished fic as the other OCs. This one is Liam's daughter, she's 18 and has always loved Michael and Fiona.**

_I believe…that maturity has more to do with what types of experiences you've had and what you've learned from them and less to do with how many birthdays you've celebrated._

In terms of experience, Michael had a maturity most adults would never achieve, by the age of ten or twelve. He'd done things that fathers did only in times of extreme crises, but he'd done them for his family because there was nothing else he could do to help them. Nate had been through many of the same things he had, but he was never put in charge of protecting his family from the evils of the world. He was just protected. That was why Nate was so much less mature than his brother in that respect.

Both of them, however, lacked experience in real family life and therefore, had almost no emotional maturity when it came to the idea of settling down. Nate could play the field or not or do whatever he wanted and Michael was accustomed to running around all the time and never being tied down, except to Fiona and that wasn't always his choice.

Despite his lack of somberness, Sam actually had a great deal of maturity. His just existed in the idea of how short and, often, unhappy life can be. So instead of losing time, he had fun and made sure that it would be a great story to tell everyone in the afterlife.

Fiona had a maturity that was quite different from everyone else's. She'd grown up in a land of discontent and feuding ideals. She'd joined the fight out of a misplaced sense of duty that fell off with her and her siblings. All this had kept her from taking the happy moments for granted because they could be all too fleeting.

All of these maturities bowed down to the maturity of the young girl sitting in the loft eating a yogurt and looking at Michael and Fiona as if they were the last people in the universe that could help her.

Katherine Glenanne was Fiona's eldest niece, Liam's eldest child. She'd spent the past two years watching her uncle die of cancer and taking care of him during that time. It was worse for her than for her young siblings because they were much too young to understand it. And it was worse for her than for her parents because she was young and hadn't gotten what she felt was her fair share of time yet. But she ploughed on anyway for her family. She graduated early and had not gone to college so she could stay home to take care of her dying uncle and young, twin brother and sister.

She'd been the rock of the family through the whole funeral process. Michael and Fiona knew; they had been there. And now? Now she was sitting in front of them begging for work. "I just need money. My education is paid for but I can't work because I'm on a student visa. I need to eat and live somewhere."

"Katherine," Michael began. "It's dangerous."

"Oh please, Uncle Mike. You should ask Aunt Fi what I did other than dancing after you left," she said, quirking a smile in Fiona's direction.

The woman laughed sheepishly. "I asked Liam first. You make it seem like teaching her to fight and use weapons is a terrible thing. Liam was the one who trained her."

The teen smiled up at her 'uncle' with a grin that he had never really been able to deny and she knew it. "Fine," he acquiesced. "Here's the deal. I have a place for you to live and you can participate in jobs, but you have to keep your grades up and study."

"Thanks Uncle Mike," Katherine said, beaming.

After their first job, he was sure he'd made the right choice. His mother was happy and protected and Katherine had pointed out a key development that had shortened the length of the job considerably. "I told you," she whispered into his ear in a singsong voice as she left the loft at the end of the day to head back to Madeline's.

So maturity had to do with experience and little to do with birthdays. Apparently it didn't mean that the most mature didn't have moments when acting like a kid was the most desirable and practical option. The sad thing they noticed, though, was that when she wasn't being perfectly childish, she was far too jaded and cynical for her age, far too worldly, and much too young to sound so old. Michael was sure, though, that he would learn more about why and how as time went on, but for the moment he was happy to have the paradoxically mature and childish teenager with them.

**Not sure how I feel about this one. I may rewrite it later, but for now I'm gonna leave it. Let me know what you think and if you have any suggestions for a rewrite I'd be glad to hear them.**


	17. Forgiven

**Set post-Lesser Evil. AU now that the first episode has aired. Centers around Michael and the emotions about killing Victor.**

_I believe…that it isn't always enough to be forgiven by others. Sometimes, you have to learn to forgive yourself._

They sat in the loft that night, just trying to take it all in. There was no big man upstairs watching over them or watching out for them, whichever it actually was. Victor was dead, technically by Michael's hand, and he was still beating himself up about it. Sam was readying to leave, but Fiona couldn't quite bring herself to yet. She had almost lost him again today, more than once and in more than one way.

"I'll see you later, Mikey. Don't beat yourself up too much about it. It's just better for him this way," the ex-SEAL said, shaking his best friend's hand. Michael nodded and watched his friend go. Then he sank back into the chair, hoping Fiona wouldn't comment.

She stretched out on his bed, relaxing as much as she could without taking her eyes off him. Truth be told, she was worried about him in the same way he always worried about her. "He's right you know," she said. He looked up at her tiredly; it had been a long day. "He asked you to. He needed you to, but it doesn't matter what I think or what Sam thinks. It matters what you think. You put him out of his misery and you let him be with his family again."

Michael stared back at her, a little unnerved, but not surprised, at how easily she read him. He nodded. "Thanks, Fi. I mean it," he replied. She just nodded and closed her eyes; she was tired, too. The burned spy got up, walked to his kitchen and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He poured them each a glass and put it away, not wanting to get drunk and wake up with a hangover and God knows what else.

Fiona took the proffered glass and drank it slowly. "Do you think he's better off?" Michael asked from the green chair. She sat up fully and looked directly at him.

"I do. What do you think?" she replied, turning the tables and forcing him to confront his own feelings, not hers.

"I think," he began, pausing, "I think if I had been in his position, I would have wanted him to do the same for me." And there it was. He could forgive himself because it was the right thing to do, even if it hurt to do it and even if he felt he had cut short the life of a generally good man who was just in a bad place. It wasn't about whether Fiona or Sam thought he had done the right thing. It was about whether or not he felt it was right for the situation he had been in and he did feel that way. Fiona set her empty glass on the nightstand and curled up on what she had long since deemed her side of the bed. Michael stretched out on the chair and they sat there for a while longer, just taking in the moment. Forgiveness. Freedom. Friendship. Life.


	18. Grief

**This has no specific place in the show's timeline.**

_I believe…that no matter how bad your heart is broken the world doesn't stop for your grief._

The final confrontation was a messy, chaotic, bloody ordeal that Michael had decided to walk right into. Sam had objected, but respected his friend's opinion. Fiona, however, didn't give a rat's ass about his opinion. She felt he was going to get himself killed and she wanted him to know that she didn't want him to go.

"I'll be fine, Fi," he assured her.

"And what if you're not?" she countered, stopping him dead in his tracks.

"Would you like to come as backup?" he asked. "Would that make you feel like I'll be safer?" She nodded fervently and began packing up her and Sam's things, mostly just binoculars and a sniper rifle.

He drove them to a spot around the corner from the meet and let them out of the Charger to go find a place to hide out. Before he could pull away, Fiona leaned into his window and looked at him with a serious expression. "Be careful," she commanded. He nodded and got her to leave with Sam.

Honestly, Michael knew it was dangerous, but he was fairly sure he could get in and out before it got too bloody on his end, and he really felt for his client this time. So he walked into what might as well have been called a death trap, rather than a meeting. The cover his team could provide was the best they could do under the circumstances, but it just wasn't enough. He sought cover behind a large truck and, about fifteen seconds later, that particular truck went kaboom.

Sam saw it in his binoculars and Fiona saw it through the scope on the rifle. It was gone and Michael had been behind it just seconds beforehand. He would have been blown to bits. Fiona put the rifle down almost immediately. There was nothing she could say, like the words had been lost before they could form and her reaction had been caught in her throat. Sam was searching the lot with his binoculars to see if Michael had done the impossible, yet again.

A single sob. She allowed herself a few tears that she didn't wipe away. Then she picked up the rifle again and shot the three men in plain view. Others started taking cover in all the wrong places and she started picking them off like deer. Michael would have yelled at her for killing them unnecessarily, but she was upset and they were to blame.

"We need to go, Fi," Sam coaxed.

"No, I need to make them pay," she replied, stubborn, angry, and more than a little upset. And somewhat like a petulant child, a petulant child with a rifle and the skills to use it.

Sam tried to reason, "I know, but the world can't stop for your grief and the cops are on the way. I doubt they'll enjoy your story about having to kill those guys because they planted the bomb that killed Mike." There he'd said it, but that didn't make it any better. Fiona shook her head and shot once more before Sam grabbed her arm and yanked her roughly into a standing position. Normally, he would have had to have a death wish to touch her in such a way, but right now she couldn't process what he was doing or saying.

Sam took the rifle away and packed it up, then dragged her from the abandoned building they were in and pulled her down to the street. Still no sign of Michael. They walked around the corner and then far from the scene to find a cab. When they finally did find one, neither could really decide where they wanted to go. Should they go to Fiona's and mull it over? Should they go to Madeline's and tell her right away? Should they go to the loft and give Michael a chance to do the impossible? In the end they picked Michael's.

"Fiona, we have to defend the loft. They may already know we're here," Sam suggested reasonably. She just plopped herself onto the bed and stared down at the floor. Now she knew how Michael had felt when she had been in that bomber's house and it went up in flames.

Sam sighed. He had long since gone into SEAL mode and her obvious break from her training somehow didn't baffle him. He understood, almost. No matter what he said about bad decisions and such that involved Fiona, he knew that she really did love Michael. "I know that your heart is breaking, but we have to do something. We can't just sit here. The world doesn't stop spinning just because he's gone," Sam tried to explain. The glare she gave him said that for her, it did. "It's what Mike would want us to do."

That was enough to get her up and moving, but not enough to make her help properly. She was still slower than normal, less focused, and obviously had her mind elsewhere. It was late by the time they were finished, so Sam suggested Fiona sleep while he "took the first watch" because he had no intention of waking her at any point during the night. She was too distracted to watch anyway.

On the bed, breathing in the subtle smell of Michael on the pillows, Fiona fell into a fitful sleep. In the chair, more from fatigue than anything, Sam fell asleep as well. Around 1:30 a.m., a car pulled up across the street from the loft and a tall man, cloaked in the darkness of the hour, got out and made his way to the warehouse. He slid through the gate and up the stairs, as quietly as he could. A key was put into the lock, turned, and then the door opened. Sam was pulled back to consciousness by the sound of the man entering the loft. The ex-SEAL stood and faced the potential intruder.

"Mike?" he asked in a relieved voice that was barely louder than a whisper. The man nodded and shook his friend's hand heartily, giving him a one-armed hug.

"Is she okay?" Michael asked, referring to Fiona. "I've never seen her sleep through someone coming into the loft. Even back in Ireland, she could never sleep through me coming into the apartment late."

Sam flipped his hand from side to side, gesturing that she was just so-so. "I don't know, Mikey. I think you should wake her up and tell her you're alive," Sam replied.

Michael's head shot up. "You guys thought…" he began, but Sam's expression kept him from needing to continue. "I wasn't behind that truck Sam. I was using it to camouflage my movements. I was just using it as a cover so I could get behind some better cover. I was pretty close to it, but I'm fine," he said. Sam looked him over and noticed the soot, dirt and a few tears in his shirt that he hadn't really taken notice of before. "When it blew up, I figured having them think I was dead wasn't such a bad thing, but I tried to leave a signal for you guys."

"I was too busy trying to keep Fi from giving away our position to the cops. She didn't really want to leave," his friend replied. "I'll give you two some time. See you in the morning." Michael nodded as Sam made his way out the door.

Michael made his way over to Fiona on the bed. She tossed and turned in her sleep, trying to escape whatever was haunting her. Then she calmed and the escape seemed to have continued on her face. Her expressions range and her eyes zoomed back and forth. He could tell she was dreaming.

He laid a hand on her bare shoulder and lightly rubbed until she woke up. With groggy eyes and an incredulous expression, she saw him standing there. "Michael," she breathed, more relieved than anything else. "I'm not dreaming right?" she asked, trying to be sure. He shook his head, smiling a little. Her hand came up, almost of its own accord, to feel his face and run her fingers through his hair. Then, she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in the crook of his neck. Despite how unlike her it was to cling, he wrapped his arms around her and maneuvered them to a better position on the bed. This way she was sitting in his lap and he wasn't bent over at an odd angle.

"I'm fine, Fi. I promise," he cooed. She nodded against his neck, noticing the smell of the explosion on his clothes and skin.

"I thought I lost you, again," she mumbled into his collar.

"I know. But I'm here. I'm fine," he whispered into her ear.

"Ok," she said, nodding against his neck and keeping herself wrapped tightly around him.

**I don't know exactly where this went or how it got there. It kind of had a mind of its own, but I like it, so I'm not going to rewrite it. I was originally going to do it for Hot Spot or for when Michael left Fi in Ireland, but it just didn't fit right.**


	19. Who We Are and Who We Become

_I believe…that our background and circumstances may have influenced who we are, but we are responsible for who we become._

Michael and Nate had grown up in the same home with the same mother and the same father. You would think they would turn out similar, and they did, until you looked closely. Michael stole things, beat people up, and made enemies for the greater good. Nate did all those things, in different proportions, for the good of his own pocket and gambling habit.

On paper, Michael was a bigger screw up than Nate. He'd stolen more cars in his preteen years than Nate had in his entire life. But Nate was a gambler and Michael had made a point of getting away from the place he hated. So really, if you looked at it, Nate was a much bigger screw up.

Sam came from an average family in Oregon. His younger brother had been killed in the First Gulf War but his family had never been extremely close to begin with. They weren't distant, but just average.

Fiona had come from a background much different from all of theirs. Her parents had the troubles of Ireland on their shoulders and had passed them on to her and her siblings. They were a tight-knit family and trained together. Almost all of her siblings joined the IRA by the age of eighteen. All of them were out now, though. She had lived and worked in a warzone for over half her life. Michael had been privy to some of that, but he had also been there when she left it all because she didn't like _what_ she was being told to do any more than she liked being told what to do.

Sam knew he was just a regular guy with some skills to help people and a penchant for enjoying his alcohol and he happened to be just fine with that. Nate was a gambler by choice, despite how much his family hated it. They knew he was responsible for it, but they loved him so they tried to help as much as they could. Fiona knew good and well that she was a product of the world she came from, but she also realized that who she was now, the person that helped people and fought for jobs and only cheated the bad guys, was because of the decision she made to stay in Miami and that was very important to her.

Michael was not the person he had expected to be at this point in his life, but he did realize that, while Fiona and Sam were a large part of it, he was ultimately the one responsible for how he turned out. If a client had lied to him and was actually the bad guy, he would switch to the "right" person, not necessarily the one paying the most or the one his government backed blindly. It was a complicated battle, but one he was happy to be a part of, despite everything that went on in Miami. He became that way because it was the right thing to do and, now that he was down on his luck, he understood the situation of others in a similar position. Now he didn't have a flag telling him what to do and who was right. He only had his own moral compass as a guide and he was proud of its choices so far.


	20. Secrets

**This is set pretty much anytime in the future. Michael and Fiona are in an actual, official relationship. Still in Miami. You'll see.**

_I believe…you shouldn't be so eager to find out a secret. It could change your life forever._

"Hey Sam," Michael said to his friend across the table at the Café Carlito where the pair was relaxing as they waited for their client to show up. "Do you know what's up with Fi? She's been acting more secretive than usual. There are no major holidays or birthdays coming up so I don't know what she's hiding."

Sam looked confused for a moment. He didn't remember Fiona acting strangely, but Michael was much more in tune with that than he was. "No," the ex-SEAL replied. "She hasn't said anything or acted weird around me." Michael nodded and sipped at his iced tea.

The client eventually showed up and the job had been okay. The money was fine, though Fiona seemed more happy than usual to get her cut. Right after, she left in a hurry for her condo and Michael followed her there. He used his key to quickly unlock the door when he realized she'd locked it behind her, and slipped inside the entryway without her noticing. She happened to be in the bedroom at the moment, so he cautiously made his way in there.

He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame and watching with a startled and almost terrified fascination. There were a few suitcases he'd seen before and a few new ones as well and all of them were sitting on her bed being filled with clothes and small possessions. This was her secret apparently. She was leaving.

"You could have said something," he said from the door, making the trained operative jump and turn around with an ashamed expression. "I know I'm terrible at them, but a goodbye might have been nice." He said it with such a pained anger that she actually started to get upset right back at him.

"You didn't bother with one in Dublin!" she spat back, angry that he had followed her and walked right in on her packing.

"It's not like I had a choice, Fiona! If I had, I would have at least said goodbye and I probably would have taken you with me!" he yelled back at her. For a moment, neither could speak and the only sound in the room was their heavy and angry breaths. "Where are you going?" he asked, stony faced, yet again.

"Home, to Ireland," she replied, equally stoic. "Liam offered me a room." Michael nodded.

"How long?" It was the hardest question for him to ask, because he had already guessed the answer.

"Indefinitely," she replied. He had been right. She was leaving.

_Some secrets are not the kind you want to know. I think it might have been easier if Fiona had just disappeared in a puff of smoke the same way I did in Dublin. It would have been easier without this yelling match, but I had to go and stick my nose in where it doesn't belong._

**(A/N: I could end it here and that would be fine, but I like happy endings, so the rest is a happy ending that you can choose to read or not. It's really up to you, but I had to at least include it.)**

"Why?" he asked very quietly. "Why after all this time?" She looked back at him and wondered the same thing as she looked into his eyes, angry tears building in the corners of hers. She wasn't angry at him anymore, but rather she was angry with herself for running from her problems like she always had. This wasn't supposed to be a problem, especially not with Michael.

She dropped the shoe she had been holding throughout their argument and forced herself forward into his chest. She buried her face somewhere around his heart and wrapped her arms around his waist. Without thinking he reciprocated easily and held her to him as he laid his head atop hers.

"Stay," he told her, not commanding or pleading, but just asking and hoping. "Please stay. Whatever it is, we can figure it out together. I'm sure." She nodded into him and just rested there awhile.

She softly mumbled into his shirt, "I'm pregnant." With a lot of pulling and prying, he managed to pull her away from him so he could get a good look at her face.

"Really?" he asked, as cautious and nervous as a little kid ice skating on the pond for the very first time. Fiona nodded and Michael grinned. It was a moment he never would have predicted he would be grinning during. An unplanned pregnancy was not always the easiest thing to swallow, especially leading the lives they did, but with Fiona, he knew anything was possible. He kissed her forehead soundly and then her lips lovingly. "Then why were you running?"

"A baby isn't in your plans Michael, and I admit not in mine either, but I don't have a choice for myself. If you never knew it wouldn't be a problem for you to get your job back and go about none the wiser. I thought it would be easier for you this way," she explained. "I figured you wouldn't have wanted a kid anyway."

"Who said I wouldn't want and love any kid that came along?" he countered. She just shrugged and tried to turn away from him, but his arms gently and firmly held her in place. "I take care of my own, Fi. If a baby has suddenly come into the picture then it's part of _our_ plans. You don't have to do this by yourself."

"I didn't think…" she started to say before he cut her off.

"It's nice to know I can still surprise you," he replied, taking in the nervous smile on her face.

"Do you think we can do it?" she asked, unsure of the answer.

"We can do anything. In fact, I'm only worried about one thing," he said with an amused smile.

"What's that?"

"How we're going to break the news to my mother." They both promptly broke out in laughter.

_Sometimes secrets are good and sometimes they're bad and sometimes they're both, but they change your life all the same._


	21. See

**This chapter contains an OC from a previous chapter, Katherine. It exists in a universe that exists only in the creative part of my mind and I have no idea if I will ever write it or post it, but she moved to Miami to get away from her family for a little while. Michael is using that as an advantage and she is living in Madeline's guest room. This is in Katherine's POV. And I decided to throw in Detective Paxson just cuz, but I'm not sure I will ever really write her character. We'll see, because I don't really like her and I'm glad Michael finally beat her.**

_I believe…that two people can look at the exact same thing and see something totally different._

I'm not exactly sure how or why we ended up here. Madeline and I had come over for an impromptu meeting of some kind for Uncle Mike, but he was never specific with the reason. When we pulled up and Aunt Fi's car was there, I was far from shocked, though it did surprise me a little when I noticed that Sam's car wasn't there and a Miami PD issue detective's car was pulling in behind us. I made no mention of my observations to Madeline as we headed up the stairs into the loft. A woman whose age I could not guess with certainty, but probably somewhere in her early thirties, followed us to the door.

I turned to her, fully intent on making my point, loudly and forcefully. "Can I help you?" I asked with just a touch of attitude and my Irish brogue slipping through. I had to get a better hold on myself. The woman was silent as she slipped her badge to a more prominent position on her belt.

"I heard there was to be a meeting here," she replied plainly. So this must be the Detective Paxson I had yet to meet. I just smirked in response and opened the door. The three of us stepped in and stopped, just barely inside. I was the farthest in, Madeline in the middle, and the detective closest to the door as if she was about to split, but it seemed that we were all far too interested in the scene before us.

Uncle Mike and Aunt Fi were arguing, with increasing volume and violence. I knew that we shouldn't stay in the room much longer but it was so hard to pull away from their dynamic considering how enrapturing it tended to be, even to onlookers.

"We should pull them apart. They're going to kill each other," Paxson hissed to Madeline and me out of the corner of her mouth. This wasn't going to end well.

"No, no," Madeline replied, surprisingly soft and calm. "They argue all the time. It's just them. They'll be fine."

To be honest, both of them had a point. It could go either way, but I had a sinking feeling that in this case, they were both wrong. I wouldn't clear my throat, for fear of the embarrassment of making our presence known, but I knew I needed to get the three of us out of the loft and to a more neutral meeting place. I would just leave an annoyed text message on Uncle Mike and Aunt Fi's phones later.

"Um, let's leave them to their argument and go have a drink with Sam," I suggested, an almost sickly sweet smile on my face. I hoped it would convey my veiled displeasure about staying any longer. Madeline didn't seem to get it, and neither did the detective. Just my luck. I sighed silently and made a motion to the door. "We'll meet them at Carlito's so they can work out their…differences."

It wasn't completely truthful but at least it got them out of the loft. So I led Detective Paxson to the Café Carlito and sat down at Sam's table. He was already there, drinking a beer. "You walk in on them, too?" he asked. I knew instantly what he was talking about. I nodded in annoyance as I pulled out my cell and watched Madeline and Paxson seat themselves at the table, and leave two seats next to each other for Aunt Fi and Uncle Mike. Sam and I refrained from chuckling.

"It's rude to invite people over and be preoccupied when they get there," I typed into my phone. Looking up at Madeline and Paxson, deep in conversation, and then to the clouds in the blue Miami sky, I slowly erased the text. I remembered a conversation my boyfriend and father had once had over my head while I was staring at the clouds and realized that however it happened, being annoyed wouldn't help. Besides, it was more amusing than anything else. "Hope u 2 have a nice day. We'll meet at Carlitos l8r," I typed in and sent. I was so going to get smacked for it later, but that was ok.

So, as we waited in the uncomfortable knowledge of what was likely happening at our previous meeting place, Sam and I shared in the hilarity of Paxson and Madeline's discussion of Uncle Mike and Aunt Fi. Paxson was sure they were at each other's throats by now. Madeline was sure they were making up. It was interesting watching two women discuss how they could look at the same thing and see two completely different scenes. Sam and I, we were trying not to laugh because we knew how right and wrong they both were, because we knew the truth.

**(A/N: This is one of those things that should probably be ended here, but the rest just sort of wrote itself, so I included it and you can read it or not. Whichever you choose.)**

About two and a half hours later, probably after my text was discovered, Uncle Mike's Charger pulled up and parked on the street outside the café and he and Aunt Fi climbed out and made their way to our table. My aunt cuffed me on the ear as she moved to her seat, making me jump at the unexpected jolt of pain.

"Ow, what was that for?" I whined, rubbing my now red ear.

"You know what it was for," she replied, trying so hard to be irritated, but far too amused to do it convincingly. Uncle Mike was, obviously, in the same boat.

I put my best cheeky smile on and replied, "What can I say? I'm a teenager and I did go to high school for a while. I'm not ignorant to the way life works." Aunt Fi glared at me and I smiled back.

"Do they…" Uncle Mike began, gesturing to Paxson and Madeline, who were still talking to each other.

I laughed as I shook my head fervently. "How awkward would that be? Trying to explain _that_ to your mother," I answered, eliciting a relieved chuckled from him. "They saw two different things in that room, and neither of them were what Sam and I saw." The ex-SEAL looked at me with a cheesy grin around his beer bottle as I looked at him with a knowing smile. Neither of us wanted to be in the middle of that, but we both knew that it could never be stopped or contained. It would be like asking water to stop being wet.

**Ok, now I'm finished.**


	22. Life Changing

_I believe…that your life can be changed in a matter of hours by people who don't even know you._

Fiona sat on an uncomfortable vinyl waiting room bench in the ER of Jackson Memorial Hospital in Downtown Miami. It was the squishy kind that was all connected and didn't have arms so you could lie down if you ended up there for that long and were intended to make you more comfortable, but failed miserably at it. She was a tad nervous, which wasn't like her, but she felt it was warranted in this case. Michael had to be nearly incapacitated by pain to take an aspirin, and practically dying to go to a hospital on any normal occasion. If he broke a bone in a country with a good medical care system, he might be coerced into going, but otherwise, forget it.

Now, she had brought him into the ER by force and hadn't been told anything since they took him in. He had been in excruciating pain for a couple of hours and had been attempting to ignore it. But when he could no longer stand up on his own because his side just hurt too much, she brought him to the doctor, hoping he wasn't dying this time. She tried reading magazines, but there were no copies of Guns & Ammo and she'd already finished the interesting article in the _Smithsonian_ on the GRU operative George Koval. Fiona had never been an extremely patient person to begin with and no one had come out to tell her anything.

After an hour or so of her aimless waiting, and even more aimless pacing, a kindly, young nurse took an interest. She had reddish brown hair that was pulled up into a curly ponytail and a pair of calm hazel eyes. She was a few inches taller than Fiona was barefoot, but with heels they stood about the same height.

"Miss, is there anything I can help you with? I just saw that you've been here a while," she asked, coming out from behind the desk and approaching Fiona.

The ex-IRA operative was frazzled enough to shoot something, but when she saw the care in the young woman's eyes, she allowed herself to be seated and explain her situation to the nurse calmly.

"My…friend," she began, stumbling over what exactly to call Michael. They were always about a reflex from crossing that invisible line in the sand, but friend seemed to work best for its vagueness. "I brought him in an hour ago with unbearable pain in his right side. No one will tell me anything. I've left a dozen messages for his mother and I'm starting to worry. I'm afraid I'm not very patient," she finished, unsure if her worries were justified.

"Well, I'm no doctor, but if I had to guess I would say your _friend_," the nurse began, emphasizing Fiona's uncertainty of his relation to her, "is suffering from appendicitis. Depending on the severity, they may have taken him to emergency surgery. I can check for you, if that would help."

"That would be wonderful, thank you," Fiona said, truly grateful that someone was willing to help her.

"Your _friend_'s name?" the young woman asked.

"Michael Westen," Fiona replied. The woman nodded back at her and got up to go back to the desk and look it up.

"Alright, and I'm Karen, in case you need anything," she explained after taking a step or two away.

Fiona nodded and picked up another magazine, feeling useless as she flipped through it. Unable to stay still any longer, yet again, she got up to pace. She was wringing her hands together, shaking them out, stretching her arms over her head, doing anything she could to pass the time and glancing at the clock to see just how much time had passed.

About five minutes later, Karen returned and Fiona sat back down. "Ok, Miss…" she began, waiting for Fiona to fill in the blank.

"Glenanne. Fiona Glenanne."

"Well, Miss Glenanne, Mr. Westen is still being examined. They do believe he is suffering from appendicitis, but they are still running tests and haven't decided how to treat him yet. Unfortunately that's all the information I have for now, but I will let you know if anything changes," Karen explained calmly. Somehow her confident and caring manner kept Fiona calm. She had never liked hospitals for the simple fact that no one there seemed like they cared much for the patients. She would rather have Michael patch her up than someone who didn't give a rat's ass whether she lived or died. Karen, though, seemed to be changing her opinion.

"Thank you. I'm not very good at the hospital thing," Fiona replied gratefully.

"No worries. We'll make sure everything gets taken care of," Karen placated, easing herself out of her seat and back to her desk where she could keep an eye on Fiona.

Another hour of restless pacing and worrying later, a woman in her mid-sixties, accompanied by a middle aged man who looked like a beach bum and a younger, more clean cut man, entered the waiting room and made a beeline for Fiona. Karen assumed this was the family of Mr. Westen.

Sam took a seat across from Fiona and looked her over to make sure she was alright. Nate immediately began asking questions and Madeline hovered just a bit from the seat to Fiona's left. They all meant well, but, somehow, company wasn't as comforting as Fiona thought it would be. She had little idea what was going on or what was going to happen, she was restless and anxious, and she hadn't had much to eat all day.

Karen inherently understood this and went to rescue her. "Hello, my name is Karen. Would I be correct in assuming you are the family for Michael Westen?" Madeline nodded and Fiona smiled in thanks. "I was speaking with Miss Glenanne earlier and I thought I would come update you all on Mr. Westen's condition. So far, they are running one final test before they decide whether to prep him for surgery to remove his appendix or to begin a course of antibiotics. If they choose to operate, it is a fairly common surgery and he should be just fine."

As she was saying this, there was a commotion in the ER, behind the door that led to the patient rooms. Someone was shouting and wheels were screeching as a gurney was pushed toward another area of the hospital. "Excuse me, one moment," Karen said as she got up and hurried to the door, fearing the noise had to do with the patient she had just been discussing.

She yanked open the door and saw a dark hair patient on a gurney being wheeled at breakneck speed toward the operating room. The surgeon following was yelling out to the OR staff up ahead to prep the OR and the patient for an emergency appendectomy. Once the door had closed behind her, Karen called out to the doctor. "Is that Michael Westen?"

The older gentleman turned to look at her. "Yes, I assume you have been keeping his family updated?" Karen nodded. "We have to get him in now, you understand. His chances are still good." Then he disappeared to prep for surgery. Karen shook herself and sent back out to the waiting room with as neutral an expression as possible.

Madeline, Nate, Sam, and Fiona were watching her approach with expectancy. "So…?"' Madeline asked, hoping for good news.

"He's going in for emergency surgery now. I don't have much information other than that his chances are good. As soon as I know anything, I will pass it on to you. Until then, I can really only tell you that this is also the waiting room for the OR and you can stay here until he is moved into a surgical recovery room and there is a cafeteria down the hall and to the left if you want anything to eat or drink. If there is anything I can do for you, just let me know," Karen explained, sympathizing with the family. They seemed to care very much for the man in the OR. She couldn't do much else for them, so she retreated to her desk and kept a cautious watch over them.

Sam and Nate were just talking in worried tones to one another and Madeline was fussing over Fiona, who was exhausted from not getting much sleep, not really eating, and dealing with a stubborn and sick Michael all day and most of the day and night before. When Sam realized dinnertime had come and gone and no one had bothered to speak up because they were worried, he offered to go to the cafeteria and get sandwiches for everyone.

Karen watched the hodge podge 'family' of sorts eat their sandwiches and wait for her update. An OR nurse had come in to tell her a few minutes before that Michael had finished pre-op and was in surgery, but Sam had been up getting them sandwiches and she didn't want to disturb them while they were eating. Once the last wrapper had been thrown away, she got up and made her way over to them. They were the largest group in the waiting room and had by far been there the longest.

"Hi," she greeted. They all looked up at her and Fiona smiled gratefully. It was the first time she had ever felt like she could trust a hospital employee to tell her the truth. "Mr. Westen finished pre-op about fifteen minutes ago and went in to surgery. I would have told you sooner, but I didn't want to interrupt your meal. You looked like you could use it. He should be finished in 1-2 hours, as long as all goes well. If it takes a little longer than that, don't worry. Sometimes, the details slow it down. A roll of tape, someone not fast enough with an instrument. Nothing to be too concerned about." She smiled reassuringly and returned to the desk.

Less than twenty minutes later, the profound lack of sleep and excess worry had finally caught up to Fiona and she was resting with her head in Madeline's lap. Michael's mom was lightly stroking the hair away from her face like a mother with her daughter. Fiona was, after all, like the daughter she never had and hoped she would have soon.

Karen saw this and came over with a light blanket for her to cover up with. They all figured she must be at least a little cold in the chilly hospital wearing one of her usual short sundresses. Madeline smiled and thanked the young nurse as she went back to her station. When they hadn't heard anything in an hour and a half, though, they began to worry just a bit, and called Karen back over.

"Listen, I understand that these kinds of things take time, but could you just check and make sure he didn't fall through the cracks? Mike is my big brother and he's done a lot of looking out for me over the years. It's my time to look out for him and we're just really worried is all," Nate explained calmly to Karen. She nodded and said she would go check.

The kind nurse headed through the door back toward the OR and up into the observation room. She had done a round of surgical nursing and therefore wasn't bothered much by it. She knocked on the window and a nurse turned toward her almost immediately and grabbed the microphone to speak to her.

"Can I help you?" he asked briskly.

"The family is concerned. Are there complications that are holding this up?" she asked, afraid of the answer.

"Nothing major. Just a few little things. Tell the family he'll be out soon," he replied with a note of finality that discouraged her returning. Karen just nodded and left the room to return to the family.

In the waiting room, Fiona was still dozing on Madeline's lap when Karen came back with a small relieved smile on her face. "No problems. He should be finished soon. I'll let you know when they move him into a recovery room." The awake members of the group thanked her again and let her return to work.

Twenty or so minutes passed and Fiona's eyes began to open. She slowly sat up and ran her fingers through her hair, slipped her feet back into her shoes and looked curiously at the blanket she had been covered with. Madeline explained that Karen had brought it over thinking she might be cold and that Michael was due to be out of surgery soon. Fiona nodded gratefully and stretched her arms above her head like a cat.

A few minutes later, with Fiona properly awake and sitting still for the moment, Karen came over with good news. "Mr. Westen made it through the surgery with no major complications. His appendix was successfully removed, thanks to Miss Glenanne bringing him in. Too much longer and it would have burst. He is resting in the surgical recovery unit, now, and my shift is ending here so I can take you up to his room and help you coordinate with his nurses if you'd like," Karen explained.

"That would be great Karen," Sam answered for them, starting to gather up the small amount of trash that had accumulated during their wait. There was a murmur of agreement around the group as they helped clean up as well.

"Thank you, Karen, for the blanket," Fiona said, grateful for what the kind young woman had done.

"It was no problem Miss Glenanne," Karen replied as she led them up to the recovery unit and Michael's room. She led them to the nurses' station on the second floor and introduced them. "Celia, this is the family of Mr. Westen. What are the conditions for visitation?" Karen asked.

Celia, a tan Latina, possibly Cuban, woman of about 50, replied in a sympathetic voice, "Two in the room at a time until he wakes up and then we'll determine from there." Karen nodded and took the small group down to room 214, letting Nate and Madeline go in first.

He was still out from the anesthetic but he looked fine and he didn't seem to be in any pain. It was weird, though, to see him in the hospital bed. He was never one to be sick and if he was he wasn't about to go to the doctor for it. They stayed in for a few minutes, Nate patting his brother's shoulder, the one he'd been shot in a few years before, and Madeline kissing his forehead.

After that, Sam and Fiona were allowed to see him. It kind of shocked Fiona to see Michael lying in a hospital bed. She had never seen him so injured that he would need to be hospitalized for longer than to be put in a cast. Sam wasn't subject to such shock. He had only seen his best friend in the hospital once though, and he had been awake and itching to get out as soon as he could.

"Nice job, Mikey. You don't go the hospital for fractured wrists or bullet wounds, but you end up here with appendicitis. What's that all about?" he joked with his unconscious friend. Fiona quirked a small smile at that and seated herself on the side of Michael's bed. Understanding the moment, Sam patted his friend on the arm and left Fiona alone with him.

She just sort of sat for a few minutes and waited, hoping he would wake up. Karen poked her head in and said, "I'm so sorry for intruding, but would you like me to see if they could set up a cot in here for you. I know you brought him in, I'm sure he'd like to see you first when he wakes up."

Fiona smiled and nodded. "If you could. Thank you, Karen. You've been so wonderful through all of this," she said, even more grateful than she had been.

"It's no problem. I went through almost the same thing with my boyfriend last year and I see people all the time just waiting on loved ones. I understand how difficult it can be and I'm here to make it a little bit easier," she replied, smiling. "I'll see what I can do about that cot." Then she was gone and off at the nurses' station.

Karen quickly began discussing the options of it with Celia, who was to be Michael's night nurse. "It should be fine. His vitals are good and he's not running a fever. I'll call maintenance and have them bring one in for her," she explained, picking up the phone.

As the call was put in, Karen headed back to room 214 to tell Fiona what was going on. "Maintenance will be bringing you a cot, but I have to go. Good night and good luck," she said, waving good bye to Fiona.

"Thank you," Fiona called quietly after her. About a half hour later, the cot was delivered and set up and she was left alone with Michael again.

Just when she was about to give up and go to bed, his eyelids started to flutter open. Normally he wasn't a flutterer, but the anesthesia had made him groggy. Fiona's form was pulling into focus when he spoke, knowing instinctively who it was. "Who are you?" he asked, shocking her more than a little.

She could do nothing more than gape at him until the corners of his mouth began to quirk up, just a little. Not caring that they were in a hospital, she whacked him on the arm that didn't have an IV. "That was not funny, Michael," Fiona admonished.

"It kind of was to me. How long have I been out?" he replied, posing a question of his own, noticing how dark it was outside his window.

"Maybe three hours, pre-op, surgery and post-op. They removed your appendix. If I hadn't been more stubborn than you, it would have burst at the loft. Aren't you lucky," she explained.

He smiled. "Thank you, Fi. Can I have some water, please?" he asked, being nice because he could see how much he'd put her through just by the harried look on her face and weariness in her eyes. She poured him a cup of water and stuck a straw in it, reminding him to drink slowly. He did as he was told and was just fine.

A few minutes of comfortable silence, punctuated only by the sucking of water through Michael's straw, the rustle of blankets as Fiona absently rubbed patterns into his knee and the quiet murmurings of "I'm fine, Fi," later, the doctor walked in to check on his patient.

"Good evening Mr. Westen," he greeted, shaking Michael's hand. "Miss…" he began waiting for Fiona to fill in the blank, again.

"Glenanne," she supplied, shaking his hand as well and not moving from her perch on the side of the bed.

"Well, I'm very glad to see you are awake. You're not running a fever and all your vitals are normal. If nothing comes up during the night or tomorrow morning, I feel confident in letting you go tomorrow afternoon. You'll have to be a bit careful until the stitches come out and then it will be whatever you can comfortably handle," he explained.

"I understand," Michael replied. A couple minutes later, after going over the procedure and any possible complications that might arise later, the doctor left the two of them alone for the night. "I'm sorry you had to wait here, Fi. I know you don't like hospitals."

"It's not your fault Michael. If it were up to you, you would be immune to everything. Besides there was a very nice nurse who helped us. I may actually come to a hospital next time something terrible happens," she replied, shocking Michael.

Sighing in exhaustion, Fiona got up, turned off the lights and went to kiss Michael on the cheek and tell him she was glad he was okay, but he had moved toward the machines and made a spot for her on the bed. "They brought me a cot, you know."

He glanced down at it with a skeptical eye. "I've slept on those things and you'll be more comfortable here."

"I've slept on them, too, and I'll be fine. You need the bed more than I do."

"Fiona, you're tired and you will be far more comfortable here. We've slept much closer than this with worse injuries than a few stitches in my side." She couldn't really argue with that so she climbed into the bed and slipped under the blankets, tangling her cold feet up with his warm ones. "So this nurse who impressed you so much…"

"Karen."

"Karen. She really changed your whole outlook on hospitals. That's pretty life-changing," Michael commented as they both drifted toward sleep.

"Yeah. In just a few hours. She knows my name and that I brought you here. Other than that, she doesn't even know me and she cared anyway." She yawned and snuggled into Michael's shoulder. He rested his head on hers and they both drifted off.

**This is actually my longest chapter so far. It took a lot of set up and I actually had to do some research. Jackson Memorial is a real hospital in downtown Miami, though I highly doubt the OR and ER waiting rooms are the same, but let's call it creative license. Appendectomies do take about 1-2 hours depending on complications. My neighbor had one when we were kids, but I don't remember that much about it, so I Googled.**


	23. When a Friend Cries Out

**Just to clear up any confusion, unless it's stated at the top of a chapter, none of them have any specific relationship to each other. In other news, I have one more that is written and I have two last ones to write. I may add a few that are not part of the email but are quotes or things like that that relate well to Burn Notice. Please leave your opinion on that in a review. Thank you. And thank you for reading! =]**

_I believe…that even when you think you have no more to give, when a friend cries out to you ~ you will find the strength to help._

Michael couldn't believe it. He hadn't even worked this hard for so little money in Afghanistan, or even when he first came to Miami. It was draining, both physically and emotionally. The client had been more than difficult to protect. The bad guys had been more than violent and unwilling. And to top it all off, it had ended up in a fight between Michael and Fiona that had been going on for at least two hours. How they could argue about the same thing for so long, neither of them knew, mostly because they couldn't exactly remember what it was they were fighting about.

"Fine Michael!" she yelled, slamming the door on her way out and leaving him to stew, alone, in the dark, with no beer and no yogurt. His fridge had been emptied because the entire team, plus the client had ended up staying at the loft and the job had kept him fro having time to restock. Now it was late and the stores were closed, so he would have to wait until morning.

Michael sighed in exhaustion. He would need some time to just hide away and not deal with things. Let Fiona cool off, let the heat from the job die down and let his mind and body recover. He just had no more to give. He was completely spent.

Ten minutes into considering sleep, his cell phone rang. "Hey Mike," the unusually somber, but panicked voice of Sam Axe said through the phone. "I need you to get down here. Fast. The beach off Ocean and 5th."

"Can you take care of it Sam? I've not been having the best day," he replied, really too tired to think he could be of any help to Sam.

"No, Mike. I need you down here, now." With that he hung up and Michael recognized the urgency in his voice from a time back in the mid-nineties when things were about to spiral out of control. He slipped his feet into his shoes and pulled a t-shirt on over his head, having discarded it a half hour or so after Fiona had left. Then he grabbed his keys and dashed down to the Charger.

He sped east on NW 5th St. until he hit Biscayne Blvd. There he turned north and floored it up to where the 41 joined up the I-395 and they became the MacArthur Causeway, which he took through Watson Island, past Palm, Hibiscus, and Star Islands and out to where 5th St split off. Then he took that straight east to the beach Sam had directed him to. It took him about 7 minutes, nearly half the time it would have taken him otherwise.

Out of breath, Michael parked the Charger and jogged toward the beach, looking for Sam. When he finally saw him, he was a little ways down the beach, hunched over something, or perhaps someone. He couldn't be sure from a distance in the fading evening light.

Despite how tired he was Michael ran to his friend, the sand pulling at his feet and his breath coming in gasps. "Sam," he panted. His friend turned to look up at him and Michael saw who he had been hunched over. Fiona. "Fi," he breathed, barely making a sound before it was swallowed up by his panting, the waves crashing ashore and the general sounds of beachgoers. There was a short blood trail leading about ten feet away to where a bloody knife was lying, half-buried in the sand.

Fiona was wearing a bikini, her bag lying in the sand beside her and her side, just above her hip bone, was sporting a jagged cut that was still bleeding. Without thinking twice, Michael tossed the bag over his head, crossing it from his shoulder to the opposite hip, threw his keys to Sam and picked up Fiona as if she weighed no more than a rag doll.

Sam wasted no time either, jogging, faster than Michael had seen him in years, to the car and pulling the passenger door open and the front seat forward. In an interesting feat of flexibility and adrenaline that probably could not be reproduced, Michael managed to put Fiona in the backseat and climb in after her, leaving the front seat pushed forward so there was room for his legs. As Sam sped off, heading back to the Causeway, Michael stripped off his t-shirt and ripped off a sleeve to use as a compress. No use in having her lose more blood than necessary.

"Take Biscayne. We don't have time for the toll on the Expressway and it's all backed up tonight, anyway," Michael instructed as he tended to Fiona in the backseat. Sam just nodded and pulled off the highway where instructed. He knew how to get back to the loft. "What happened?"

"I still haven't quite figured that out. I'll tell you what I know once she's patched up." Michael was fine with that answer and just kept glancing nervously out the windshield.

Once they pulled up to the loft, a similar feat of acrobatics was performed and Fiona and Michael somehow made it out of the car and up the stairs into the loft. Sam went to grab some towels and heat some water on the stove.

"Workbench," Michael instructed, gesturing toward the bench that served as a counter and table for them. Sam quickly spread the towel over it and grabbed a pillow from the bed. He laid a towel over that as well, assuming her loss of consciousness may have been from a hit to the head. Michael gratefully laid her limp form across the workbench and set to work. Sam was quick with the medical supplies, finding rubbing alcohol, bandages, a needle and thread, a sharp knife and an old Zippo lighter.

Michael peeled his shirt sleeve away from the wound and was dismayed, but not surprised, to find it full of sand. He carefully doused a wash cloth in alcohol and cleaned the wound while Sam disinfected the blade a few times. No taking chances. Sam heated the blade with the lighter and handed it to Michael to clean out the larger debris that were embedded in her flesh and to make the wound a little less jagged so it wouldn't scar as badly. When that was finished, Sam took back the knife to clean it and passed Michael a disinfected needle threaded with a long piece of black thread.

With the practiced strokes of a man who had done this far too many times, Michael carefully stitched the sides of the wound together and placed a large bandage over it. Satisfied with how that went, he tilted Fiona's head up so he could have a look at her head, as he shared Sam's theory about her unconsciousness. Sure enough, his fingers came back coated lightly in blood. He picked up a damp towel and rinsed the blood off her scalp. It had barely broken the skin and already stopped bleeding, nothing major.

Carefully, Michael picked her up again and had Sam move the pillow back to the bed where he laid her down. Then he went to the fridge for a yogurt, only to realize he still hadn't gone to the store. Sighing, he closed the fridge and got a glass of water instead. Then he went to sit with Sam and listen to the story.

Apparently, Fiona had gone down to the beach to think and clear her head, at least that's what she told Sam when she called to complain about Michael, because that's the kind of friends they were. While they were on the phone, some men Sam believed to be part of the group they had brought down on their most recent job approached her and that's who he was pretty sure tried to stab her. She fought back, of course, and ended up dropping her cell phone, which was now in Sam's pocket, into the sand. He heard a dull thunk and figured the attacker must have hit her over the head with something because after that he heard sand and then even breathing.

He had sped over and what he found supported what he heard, having called Michael on the way there. They arrived within a few minutes of each other so she couldn't have been too injured in the meantime or attracted too much attention.

"So, I'm guessing that means the three of us are on lockdown again," Sam said. It was confirmed with a nod from Michael.

"Go ahead and go on up to sleep Sam. You did a lot today; you must be tired. I'll stay down here with her for a while. See if she wakes up before morning. Just in case," he suggested. Sam nodded, clapping his friend on the shoulder before going up to claim the couch.

After his friend had headed upstairs to bed, Michael sat down on his bed next to Fiona's legs. He carefully brushed the hair from her face, regretting their earlier argument. He quietly called to her, hoping she would wake up, because he wasn't sure what kind of trauma she had suffered. He didn't think she had a concussion, but head wounds were always fickle things.

A few minutes later, her eyes started to drift open. She was staring straight up into Michael's bright, worried blue eyes. He sighed in relief when she looked right at him. "Hi," she said, not quite sure how she had ended up back at the loft. "What happened?"

"You were attacked on the beach. Do you remember that?" he asked. She nodded slowly, her head felt a little fuzzy. "Sam called me and we came and got you. I stitched up your side and cleaned up the head injury. You should be fine. Do you feel okay?"

"Yeah. A little hungry, maybe thirsty," she replied, sitting up slowly. She smiled slightly, wondering why he was hovering. She had been so terrible to him earlier and he had been terrible right back.

He chuckled, a wonderful sound when she had been expecting a lot of yelling. "I have a bottle of whiskey you brought over and half a box of Cheerios. Does that sound appetizing?" he asked with a grin.

A smile quirked at the corners of her lips. "Better than nothing." Michael got up, crossed to the kitchen and returned with the Cheerios tucked under one arm, two empty glasses and the whiskey in one hand and a glass of water for Fiona in the other. She gratefully sipped at the water while he poured the liquor and pulled out the half full plastic bag of cereal.

For a while they just sat and ate and drank in silence, crunching each sugary O with a half smile because it was like the old days again. Michael popped one into his mouth and looked up at Fiona, completely sincere, but not totally somber. "I'm sorry about earlier."

"Yeah, me too," she said back, tossing a couple of cereal pieces into her mouth.

"Truce?" he suggested.

She giggled, a rare but wonderful event in Michael's eyes that he missed very much. "Yeah, truce." Then the comfortable silence continued on until Michael started tossing Cheerios into the air and catching them in his mouth, reveling in the ability to act like a normal person every once in a while. Fiona took over tossing them at his face so he could catch them, then she tried catching them. It was a fun way to finish off the cereal and restore their playful bantering tone.

When they finally decided to go to sleep, barely any of the whiskey had been drunk, but all the Cheerios were gone. As Michael got up to clean up their mess and change, Fiona asked, "Are we back on lockdown?"

"Yep," he answered, putting the bottle of whiskey back in the cabinet. He went off to change and put his clothes away, coming back to the bed. "You mind?" he asked, making sure she wasn't going to kill him in his sleep if they shared the bed. She smiled and shook her head slowly in the negative, careful to avoid giving herself a headache.

The lights were off and they could only see each other by the light of the moon when Fiona turned to Michael. "You said you were done, finished, burnt out, had given all you had and couldn't give anymore. What changed?" she asked quietly in the darkness.

"Sam called for help. No matter what happens, I'll always find the strength in me somewhere to help my friends and family. Miami changed that about me. I think I like it, even if it's not the most convenient trait in the world," he replied, not stopping her from tangling up their feet as they both drifted into a comfortable sleep.

**I think this one sort of ran away with me. It went exactly where I wanted it to go, but I think it took the scenic route because it was a lot longer than I expected.**


	24. A Not SoDecent Person

**This chapter is set at least some time after Do No Harm and was somewhat inspired by that episode. It doesn't really relate to any of the others. Michael POV.**

_I believe…that credentials on the wall do not make you a decent human being._

Fiona and I sat there in the scam doctor's office. He was clever, I'd give him that much, but that was where the criminal mastermind traits stopped. He was actually a real doctor and would write prescriptions, but he would switch the drugs with placebos and sell the real pills on the street. He scammed infertile couples out of their money. He tricked teenagers into buying fake birth control pills. The worst was the kids. He gave them medicine just as fake and the parents got more worried each time the kid didn't respond to the 'drug'.

We had been hired by one such parent, intent on bringing the fake to justice. It really hit me and Fiona because we had been so involved and impassioned with the little boy named Jack whose dad was scammed out of money to treat his heart condition. We really cared about the little guy, so we took this job, too. We still felt the same about anyone who scams the sick, elderly or children.

I was spacing out as I stared at the degrees and credentials displayed behind the 'doctor' that no one could miss. We were supposed to be a couple looking for a quick infertility treatment. It wasn't the most comfortable cover I'd ever had, but not the most uncomfortable either.

Our chairs were pulled close together in front of the visually impressive desk and Fiona's hand was securely and softly in mine, making it even more difficult to concentrate. I could feel, though, as the 'doctor' neared the end of his spiel, Fiona started to get tense and angry.

"What do you think, Mr. Jones?" the man before us asked, yanking me from my reverie.

I raised Fiona's hand to my lips, trying to preserve cover while I tried to figure out what exactly he had said. It was something about the treatment. What did I think about the treatment? "I think that credentials on a wall don't make you a decent human being," I said directly, not able to keep cover much longer. If it helped, I didn't drop the accent. Maybe Fiona could salvage this, but at the moment, I just wanted out.

So I tugged on her hand and we stood and left. The 'doctor' was still sitting in his seat, flabbergasted. Once we made it outside and far enough away, Fiona pulled me into an alley where we could talk. Now it was my turn to be the one apologizing like she had after getting into a fight with Rachel because of Jack.

"I'm sorry, Fi. I'm sure we could dummy up a story and you could go back in and save it, but the way he was talking, I just couldn't take it. I started staring at all his degrees and credentials and commendations and I was thinking about how much I hate people like him. People who think they're better than everyone else and can decide the future for us just because they went to some fancy school for a few years," I rambled, not noticing that Fiona was snaking her free hand up behind my neck while the other remain securely locked in mine.

"Shhh," she hushed, pulling my forehead down to rest on hers. "If I had been any more able to take what he was saying with the knowledge we have, I would have been able to stop you before you blurted that out. I was having a hard enough time keeping my mouth shut and not punching him."

We chuckled for a moment before relaxing into each other as we leaned up against the alley wall. I sighed and wrapped my free arm around her waist. "We'll figure something out," I said, pulling her by the hand from the dark alley and toward the Charger at the end of the street. "We have to. He needs to be brought down." She nodded resolutely at me as I held the door open for her and in moments we were off to the loft to come up with another way to bring down the scum of the earth.


	25. Too Soon

**This is set about fifteen years in the future. It could relate (very slightly) to chapter 20 Secrets, but it doesn't really matter. Michael and Fiona are married and have kids. Nate is married. Major character death warning, but this takes place at the end of the funeral.**

_I believe…that the people you care about most in life are taken from you __too soon__._

Michael stood there in the front row, shaking hands and nodding his thanks, hugging the occasional person, and waiting for it all to be over with. They would leave and the family would have their time. As the line of mourners dwindled and finished, he felt Fiona slip her hand into his, squeezing as reassuringly as she could given the circumstances. He knew Nate and his wife were on Fi's other side and that was reassuring, too. He had gone through enough of his life alone and this was, thankfully, not one of those things he had to do on his own.

Glancing down to his left, he could see his twelve year old son Connor wrap an arm around his eight year old daughter Kasey's shoulders and let her bury her tears in his suit jacket. They were all stifling in their funeral clothes, but no one really minded as much as they thought they would. It was a small sacrifice for someone they loved. The eulogy Sam had given was beautiful and mostly without tears. Michael and Fiona thanked him about a million times for doing it because neither of them could. Just then, Fiona wrapped her arm more fully around his and leaned into him, trying to get the comfort she had never been good at asking for. Michael obliged without hesitation as he had for the past week or so, during which the family had supported each other more than ever.

A small hand tugged on the side of Fiona's dress and the hem of Michael's jacket. "Why did Grandma have to go?" Kasey asked in a tiny voice that was so unlike her. She was much more like her mother and that had always amused Madeline, especially since it made Michael dread her high school years.

Letting go of his wife and kneeling down in front of his daughter, he replied, "Because it was her time and it may have been too soon for us, but it's best for her this way. She's safe and comfortable up in heaven and she is always watching over you. Ok?" Kasey gave a tearful nod as Michael lifted her up into his arms.

"But I don't want her to leave me."

"I know, baby. Me neither," he told his daughter as Fiona soothingly rubbed her back and he ruffled Connor's hair. "Come on. Grandma would have wanted us to have a party and celebrate her life, all the good times and stories about her." Connor nodded and straightened up. His parents were impressed with how strong he had been through it all.

"Connor, it's okay to cry you know," Fi said as they walked away from the grave toward their (now larger) car.

"I know, Mom," he replied, becoming lost in thought once more.

Worried by his silence, Fiona persisted. "What are you thinking about?"

He looked up to her quickly. "I think, the people we love the most are taken from us too soon so they can watch over us and let us grow on our own." Fiona looked over to Michael from the passenger seat with an expression that conveyed their mutual pride and amazement with their children.

"Yeah, baby, I think that's exactly why. What do you think Kasey?" Fiona replied.

The little girl nodded. "I think so, too," she replied and looked back out the window.

It was hard and emotional, but they got through it because they were family and when the going got tough, the tough got tougher. Michael let Nate have their mom's house on the condition that he could use the garage as a multipurpose safe house/interrogation room/general use secure facility. They stayed close as they still worked together often and Nate's wife picked up Kasey and Connor from school and watched them afterwards most days of the week. Everything was different, but yet it was still so much the same. It didn't matter; she was still gone far too soon.

**In light of the promo for Shot in the Dark that shocked me for a few minutes, I thought I might do this for Fiona instead of Madeline. Of course that thought disappeared about three milliseconds after it formed. This was what I had in mind originally for it, I just hadn't sat down to write it until now. Please review and let me know what you think. One more chapter to go. Very much considering continuing this story with other quotes and snippets from different places. Let me know if you'd be interested in that.**


	26. The Happiest of People

**This is the last thing on the email, but there are some quotes and snippets of things from songs, the Burn Notice books, etc. that I have been thinking of writing oneshots for. I've gotten a few very kind reviews that express a desire for me to continue, so I shall. This chapter is Michael's POV and it references a line in ****The Fix**** that I found particularly funny about drunk people alternately taking a leak and attempting to have sex on the palm trees near the loft.**

_The happiest of people don't necessarily have the best of everything; they just make the most of everything._

I had long since dragged my green chair out onto the balcony, preferring the balmy night air to the stuffy loft. So I sat with a yogurt in one hand, a spoon in the other and my feet propped up on the railing. I wasn't really doing much of anything except watching the stars and lights of the city. The club was pulsing below me, but the night was still relatively young so only the occasional person or couple would stumble drunkenly across the street to the palm trees in an attempt to relieve themselves, either of their alcohol or their sexual tension. I chuckled as one man unzipped his pants and, before being able to use the palm tree urinal, fell over onto the sidewalk and passed out.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a car park down the street. It was nothing new on a night like this and I wasn't particularly worried about it. I didn't see any large men toting guns, or vicious women with knives trying to get to my loft door. There were just bodies blurring together in a line somewhere below me and I really couldn't make out more than colors for any one of them. The metal gate scraped open slightly and then shut. I heard it latch securely before my visitor climbed the stairs. When the door was unlocked and opened immediately and the soft sound of wedge sandals padded across the threshold, I knew it was Fiona. She closed and locked the door quickly and set her things down.

I knew they were sitting on the former work table beside the door that had been there since I moved in. As she walked further into the loft, she would pass the entryway to my nearly hidden bathroom and closet, past the steps up to the loft platform that was sturdy enough for now, past my makeshift gym beneath it, past the large neon signs I haven't figured out a use or purpose for but haven't gotten rid of either, past the mattress in the middle of the room, past the workbench and old fridge where we ate the half of our meals that didn't come from the Café Carlito and out through the old wooden door that seemed to have survived everything I could throw at it.

She knew I could feel her behind me, but she just stood there, almost hesitantly. She reached toward me and, in the end, just rubbed her hand along the top of my shoulder. "Hey, Fi," I said quietly, not wanting to break the moment.

"Hey," she said back, letting my hand come up to cover her own. We stayed like that a few moments longer, until she spoke again. "I came to talk to you."

My fingers tightened carefully around her hand as I lightly tugged her around to face me and put my feet down so I could sit up and we could really have this conversation. "What is it?" I asked softly.

Her face was set with a determination that I hadn't seen during one of these talks in a long time. "I've thought about it and I want you to know that no matter what happens with your burn notice and no matter where you end up, I'm with you. I know I said it before, but I'm really sure of this. I won't always be happy about it, but I'll be there. Tactical support, emotional support, just because I want to be there."

It wasn't hard to believe what she was saying. That's the way things were back in the day, but that was the cause of the circumstances that made me leave. She wouldn't hide and stay away and keep out of danger, so my blown cover and the threat against her were real and frightening. "Fi…" I tried to begin.

"I don't care if it's going to be dangerous Michael. I know it will be, but you're worth a little risk. It's not like I haven't done it before. And I know that I will probably never be your first priority, but I still care about you," she finished and I was a little surprised by her words.

"You think you're never my first priority?" I asked, almost hurt by her accusation. "Who do you think I was thinking of when I left Dublin?! Who do you think I was thinking of when I took that bullet in Belfast?! How about the knife fight in Germany?! That was all because I was trying to keep _you_ safe!"

Her expression was indignant, annoyed. "And what about here?" she asked me.

I sighed. "After I left Dublin, I realized that I honestly have nothing to give you, Fi. I can't give you a home, stability, a nice bed to sleep on every night, a safe, clean, sturdy place to live. I can't give you any of that and you deserve so much more than what I _can_ give you. In the few years leading up to my burn notice, I lived in hotels and motels of varying degrees of filth, decay and danger. Sometimes I didn't live anywhere at all. That's not the life you should have," I explained, trying to make her see how heartfelt I was about the situation.

"You know Michael, it's not about having the best of everything; it's about making the most of everything or nothing." She could tell I wasn't convinced and wouldn't be budging on it any time soon. Sighing and reaching to take my other hand, which I had just freed by setting down my yogurt, she asked, "Do you love me?"

"You know I do," I replied.

"Say it."

I stood up and held her hands, pulling closer to her. "I love you, Fi," I said, low and clear.

"Then you have something to give me," she said, as if that solved all our problems.

"Love isn't enough to fix everything."

"I'm not saying it is," she said back. With a wise and determined smile, she explained, "I'm saying that it's reason enough to work through our problems, to try harder and not give up on each other. That's why I don't need all of that. We can work through the lack of stability and normalcy, but we both have to be willing to try."

"I am," I said. "Are you?"

"Always," she replied, nodding. Carefully, I let go of her hands and wrapped on arm around her waist and my other hand slid up to run my fingers through her hair and tilt her head back so I could kiss her. Her arms came up around my back, pulling me down closer toward her as she slid one arm around my shoulders and the other to the back to my neck.

Standing on my balcony, holding Fiona to me as tightly as I could, welded together by love and determination, I realized that I was happier than I had been in a very long time. Maybe she was right about making the most of everything, despite the fact that it wasn't very much or very good to being with. Either way, there was no way I was letting go of this moment.

**Ok, so that was the final chapter relating to the email. I don't know if it's in character enough, but I'm thinking it's more like the talk on the balcony in Sins of Omission, sort of. I'm sorry that there won't be any updates for a while because I will be on a cruise in the Caribbean and a few days on land in… Miami! I'll be back on the first and should be updating again soon after.**


	27. Chocolate

**Ok, this one I got off an icon and couldn't help but remember one of Fi's comments to Michael in Hot Spot. So this is set after Friends Like These. And I thought Sam should learn a valuable lesson about women, or at least ones like me who gets a jones for chocolate and the resulting "chocolate high" can get me through anything.**

_It's not that chocolate is a substitute for love. Love is a substitute for chocolate. Chocolate is, let's face it, far more reliable than any man._

Fiona was watching Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie decide whether or not to kill each other on her tv screen when she heard the knock on her door. She would be the first to admit that there were glaring inaccuracies in the film, but if you looked at it for its value as a movie and not a documentary on being a spy or assassin it portrayed their relationship surprisingly well. There was a fine line between love and hate and violence and rivalry and killing each other, but it really was love. It struck her, though, that they would have a much happier ending than she and Michael would.

Another knock on her door pulled her from her reverie. She decided it could be only a few people. It was either someone selling something, in which case she wasn't home, Michael, who she really didn't want to talk to and wouldn't no matter if he broke in and stood in front of her tv or if he stood outside and pounded on the door all night, Madeline, who would eventually start yelling at her to open the door and she would have little choice in the matter, or Sam, who would either break in, give up, or threaten to call her landlord. There was one last big knock on the door before the person on the other side started yelling at her.

"Fi, your car's here. I know you're home," Sam called loudly. Fiona shook her head as if trying to shake away his voice. If he wanted to talk to her that badly he could figure out his own way in; she was happy on the couch. "Fine. I'm coming in." A few seconds after that, the lock clicked and Sam opened the door, crossing to the living room in a few strides.

"Hi Sam," she greeted, not looking up at the man standing in her peripheral vision at the edge of her living room.

"What is this?" he asked, gesturing at the chocolate wrappers sitting on the table in a pile next to the unopened chocolates and the one Fiona was in the middle of biting into. "Is this one of those girl things where you replace chocolate for the guy you're mad at? Like a substitute for love?"

Finally, she looked over at him and swallowed her latest bite of chocolate. "It's not that chocolate is a substitute for love," she began adamantly and Sam knew he had hit a nerve. He may not have been right about what it was, but it was definitely one of 'those girl things' that Fiona was a bit territorial, you could say, about. "Love is a substitute for chocolate." There was a twinge of bitterness and Sam assumed that was it. While Michael was one to throw himself into work or, worse but less likely, alcohol, Fiona was simply throwing herself into sweets and movies. "Chocolate is, let's face it, far more reliable than any man." And there it was. That was what is _really_ boiled down to. She was mad at Michael, understandably. You'd have to be dead to miss the tension and anger and thinly veiled arguments and frequent arguments of late between the two of them.

It had occurred to Sam in the past few weeks that they should really have been checking more into Strickler and Diego on their own, but Michael had ignored all of that. It was odd, more than odd, for him to trust anyone so quickly without any reason or proof. Sam let his mistrust go, hoping Mike had some idea what he was doing and wasn't becoming so focused that the blinders went up and it turned into obsession. But that was what had happened and Fiona was not going to let him get away with blatantly disregarding everything he had ever learned and everything he cared about. Getting back in was one thing and Sam could get behind it, but endangering Madeline and pushing Fiona away by crushing her were not things Sam could agree with.

"I know he's blinded by how close he is, but he doesn't mean it, you know," Sam explained, knowing full well it wasn't good enough. If it wasn't a good enough excuse for him it wouldn't even come close for her. "And I know that's not enough and it doesn't make anything better, but it's all I've got." Sam wasn't sure if that was anything close to what she needed to hear or what she wanted to know, but Fiona nodded anyway and asked if he wanted to sit down because she had missed the middle of her movie when he came in and was going to start it again.

He ended up staying to watch the whole movie with her before noticing the time and remembering that Madeline was cooking. He got up, but not before inviting her to come along and have dinner with them. When she declined, he understood, said goodbye, and left her alone with her thoughts and her bitterness and her movies and her chocolate. He would have to check on Michael later to make sure he wasn't driving himself to insanity with the burn notice because if it was affecting Fiona that much it must be doing at least something to Michael, too.

Fiona sat back into her couch. She wasn't depressed, bitter or angry were better descriptions. Either way, she wasn't happy. So she sat there and flicked on Atonement. It wasn't the same kind of love, but it _was_ their kind of ending: bad. She took another bite of her Hershey bar and for that one moment, as the sweet, chocolate-y taste bombarded her senses and the sugar flooded her veins, everything was ok.

**Ok, I have a few other ideas in the works but nothing is really written yet. I've had a gajillion ideas for post-Friends Like These fics but I didn't like any of the things I'd written until this one. I hope it's not too OOC for Fi, but I tried to make her more angry than depressed and I was remembering the TV Guide article that said Gabrielle Anwar likes to eat chocolate truffles and that made me think of this. There will be more installments soon, but I've been trying to get back into the swing of life after being literally unreachable for a week so it may be a short while. Please review and let me know what you think. Any phrases or quotes or sayings or lyrics from songs or whole songs that you might like to see are welcome suggestions. I can't promise I'll use them, but I'll try. If you don't feel like leaving a suggestion in a review, feel free to message me. Or if you just want to wait and see what I come up with on my own that's cool too. I just want to thank you all for reading and reviewing and sticking with this through so many chapters. =]**


	28. His Favorite Part

**I realized that I've been writing a lot of chapters with Mike and Fi fighting. I think I'm just in a mood or a funk or whatever or it could be all the emotions and words in those wonderful breakup songs that I've been listening to for no good reason and my need to put them somewhere. And it's probably in the spirit of Thursday. I don't know. I'm trying to mix them up, but this one stuck me because of Friends Like These though I've been thinking about doing this one for a little while. It's from another icon because I'm turning to my photobucket collection of icons for inspiration at the moment.**

_I don't want to be your whole life, just your favorite part._

It had started just as all their recent arguments had, with his near obsession with the burn notice and his blatant disregard of her and her opinions. That, of course, had resulted in a yelling match of epic proportions because Fiona was, frankly, sick and tired of him being an ass to her and Michael was fed up with her nagging and pushing about it all.

"Well you're just going to have to deal with it! No matter how much you try or how much you want to, you can't be my whole life Fiona!" he yelled across the loft. She was standing near the door, dangerously close to walking out, again, if only to get away from this fight before he said something that made her lose control completely. It was obvious she had already struck that nerve for him and he was just itching to return the favor. Well, he just had.

Fiona looked as indignant and upset as if he had physically struck her, again, but he was too angry and too caught up to notice. She wanted to yell and scream and be ten times as angry. She managed to raise her voice at him, but not much else. "I don't want to be your whole life," she said loudly, her tired voice echoing slightly in the loft. "Just your favorite part," she finished in a significantly quieter voice, something akin to a heartfelt whisper, but angrier and sadder. It mixed with his ragged breathing and suddenly it clicked.

Michael nodded as his features and body language visibly relaxed. He wouldn't argue with her on that point. Nor would he verbalize that she _was_ his favorite part of life. She made it far more interesting and, no matter how much of a patriot he was, when it really came down to it she was more important. He had lived the past few years on the blacklist and she had been there, making it fun. She had been there when things were good with the spy game, too. And he hoped that long after he was retired and the 'simple' life had set in, she would be there to make that interesting, too. But what really hit him was that if he kept doing this, pushing her to the breaking point and making her walk out, she would cease to be there with him in any capacity.

There were no more words spoken, just his simple nod, but that was enough for the time being. The rest could be sorted out when tempers and emotions weren't so high. Until then, he was contented that she was his favorite part of life and he was hers.

**So, drop me a line and maybe a suggestion. Thanks for reading and I hope ot have the next one to you soon.**


	29. Doing Nothing About It

**I know I said I would try to write less of the ones where they're fighting, but this just screamed at me. It sounded to me like something Madeline would say because she loves to meddle in their relationship. I'm going off now to try to write something that is about some of the other members of the team.**

_Don't you hate it when two people belong together and don't do anything about it?_

Sam and Madeline stood together in the kitchen listening to the argument in the garage. They were at it yet again, but this time seemed different. They had been at each other's throats as of late and were just looking for reasons to fight. In all truth, they were driving Madeline and Sam insane. It was then that Nate walked in. He raised his eyebrows and gave a low whistle.

"They're really going at it, aren't they?" he asked, looking from his mother to Sam.

The ex-SEAL nodded. "Third time this week," he said in reply

"It's only Wednesday," Nate said, incredulous. "Someone has to do something. They can't go on like this forever."

Madeline and Sam both fixed the youngest Westen with unconvinced stares. "The two of them could go on as ling as they'd like. The problem is they shouldn't," she explained to her son, punctuating her sentence with forceful points in his direction with a cigarette perched between her fingers.

They all fell silent as the back door that led toward the garage and driveway opened and Fiona appeared, angry and more than a little upset. She slammed the door with as much force as she could muster without breaking the window. The small group gathered in the kitchen assumed Michael was on the other side. Realizing what she had done, Fiona sent a somewhat apologetic glance at Madeline as she passed them on her way into the living room to sit on the couch.

A moment or two after she disappeared from sight and a shrug had gone around the three of them, Michael opened the back door and slammed it nearly as hard, though obviously out of frustration and anger rather than her obvious (and successful) attempt to frustrate him further. He offered no apology and simply stalked off to the living room as well.

Knowing they all wanted to hear or see anything that might happen in the living room, Sam, Madeline and Nate made the unspoken choice to gather in the dining room where it would be easier to do both. So there they sat, listening for anything, screaming, yelling, talking, whispering, it didn't matter. When nothing came for quite some time Madeline sighed.

"Don't you hate it when two people who belong together don't do anything about it?" she asked no one in particular. Sam nodded vaguely, taking a sip of his beer. It had been a hard couple of weeks for him. They tried to keep it to themselves, but oftentimes he was caught in the middle and there was nothing he could do because if he took a side one of them would hate him and he really thought both of them were wrong so they would both hate him. He just couldn't win so he tried to stay out of it as much as he could and that was tiring.

"Don't you think it's worse when they actually work _against_ it?" Nate suggested and was met with agreeing nods from the other two. No one ever said it would be an easy road, but they were sure Michael and Fiona would make it, that is if they didn't manage to kill each other in the living room.

**Drop me a line and let me know what you thought. Working on getting the next one to you soon.**


	30. Suffering is Optional

**So I wrote one that only has a little to do with Michael and Fiona. I have a hard time writing a fic that doesn't, oh well. This is more of Sam and Fi's odd fighting/friendship with a little reminiscing on the good ole days for Mike and Fi. At least I managed to not make them fighting. That seems to be so much easier for me lately. I think it has something to do with them fighting on the show right now.**

_Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional. ~Unknown_

"It would hurt less if you stopped moving," Fiona reprimanded lightly, enjoying her task far more than she should have.

Only and hour or so earlier, she and Sam had been checking out a lead on one of their jobs by themselves and Sam taken a ricochet in the right shoulder. It had embedded in the thick flesh there and it had become Fi's job to dig it out. They were back at the loft because they didn't want to scare Madeline with a gunshot wound and Fiona had been opposed to getting Sam's blood all over her condo.

At the moment, he was protesting loudly that it hurt. Of course it hurt, he got shot. That was Fi's first reaction. When he had argued that it was her technique in a voice that was reminiscent of a petulant child, she had replied, somewhat amused and annoyed, that he should quit moving. He grunted and glared at her before making an attempt to sit very still as he gripped the workbench as tightly as he could.

She dug a little deeper with the knife and Sam grunted again. The bullet had been a ricochet but it had passed through Sam's accumulated layer of beer fat before forcing through the muscle left over from being a SEAL. Because of the fleshy location it had taken quite a bit more to stop the bullet and therefore Fiona had to dig a little more for it. That didn't agree with Sam, but he knew it needed to be done.

"You know, Fi, I don't like pain," Sam complained as she made the incision a little deeper, again.

"Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional," she replied offhandedly. "So stop squirming and you won't suffer as much." The last part was more commanding and Sam complied, or tried to, when he realized he had been shifting away from her knife.

"It's just…Are you sure we shouldn't call Mike?" Sam asked. "He's good with this stuff."

Fiona gave him an annoyed look. "Who gets shot more often, me or Michael?" she asked simply as she went back to work.

"Well, Mike," he replied, intending on continuing that sentence.

"Exactly. I was with Michael for a long time. I _lived_ with Michael for a long time. Who do you think patched him up every time he got himself shot or stabbed or any number of other things?" Fi explained testily. Understanding her point, finally, Sam tried to relax and made a point of staying in one place so Fi could finish.

Not long after she was done, Michael came home to find the two of them at the workbench drinking beers and just sitting. It was rare to get them to willingly cooperate, but the silence seemed to be quite companionable for the time being. What bothered him, though was the large bandage across Sam's upper right arm and shoulder and the various medical supplies lying around because Fiona had obviously not put them away.

"Did you get shot Sam?" he asked cautiously when he noticed a bullet sitting a bowl of water.

"Just a ricochet. Fi took care of it," Sam replied easily as he took another sip of beer. "Well, Fi and this beer took care of it." Michael shook his head in amusement and smiled over at Fiona. He remembered those days when she patched him up after his not so good run ins with various nefarious people. Those had been the good old days. He was becoming increasingly certain, though, that in ten years these would be the good old days so he should try to hold onto them while he could. The only thing he could focus on though, in those first few minutes he had walked into the loft, was Fiona's soft, laughing smile that very nearly took him back to Ireland. Then the moment was gone, their smiles weren't, but they were back to the job at hand just like always.

**So there it was. Please drop me a line and let me know what you think. I'm still open to suggestions, but I'm currently just pulling things from my icon collection and . **


	31. Throwing Snowballs

**Ok, I found this one in my arsenal of quotes. I've always loved it and I thought it would be a nice view of Mike and Fi in the past.**

**I wrote a collection inspired by the poem from Ten Things I Hate About You and I made them all one chapter because none of them are very long, like two paragraphs on average. So that should be next, but toss a suggestion or general idea my way and I'll see what I can do with it..**

_The aging process has you firmly in its grasp if you never get the urge to throw a snowball. ~Doug Larson_

It was early winter in Dublin and Fiona and Michael had a small apartment in the city together. She knew by then that he wasn't Michael McBride, but she heard his Irish accent more often than not most days. He used his American only when they were home alone and sure no one was listening. Even then, little bits of Irish brogue came through as if he was really beginning to acquire the accent.

"Michael," Fiona called in their quiet and cozy, albeit tiny, bedroom one cold morning. Mindful of the bright morning light, Michael opened his eyes and looked into her bright green ones. "It's snowing," she explained happily.

Michael closed his eyes and flopped backwards into the pillow. "This is why you woke me up at five in the morning?" he asked incredulously. It was his "day off" so to speak and he would have preferred to sleep in, at least until eight or so.

"Come on Michael. Let's get up and go outside. It's the first snow of the season and I'd like to enjoy it, preferably with you," she complained. A small smile flitted across his lips and he opened his eyes again.

"Alright, Fi," Michael acquiesced as they got up, tossing back the blankets and bracing for the slight chill thanks to their somewhat weak radiator. Dressing warmly in warm pants and sweaters and wool socks and coats and scarves, the pair of them grabbed their hats and gloves and took off down the stairs of their building. Fiona embodied her free spirit and childlike wonder as she skipped out from the door into the empty street covered in a soft white blanket of snow.

Their breath puffed in little white clouds in front of their faces as they crunched the snow under their feet and rubbed their hands together to ward off the chill of the freezing temperatures that characterized the early winter morning. Delicate flakes still drifted softly and silently downward, landing in their hair and making it appear that they had suddenly aged fifty years, despite the radiant exuberance and childlike wonder in their grins.

Fiona laughed as she turned to Michael and saw the soft snow coating the top of his dark hair. Standing on tiptoe, she reached up and lovingly brushed it off. "Come on. Let's enjoy the snow before the street starts getting busy," she said, grabbing his hand and pulling him over to a clear area in front of a parked car. She flopped back onto the snow, pulling Michael with her. His puzzled expression was noted, but not addressed as Fiona encouraged him to follow her example. "Have you never made a snow angel Michael?"

"I grew up in a subtropical climate, Fi. The first time I saw snow in person I was twenty-five, in Russia, and working," he gently reminded. With a happy smile that she would be the first person he would ever play in the snow with, she instructed him on the art of snow angel making. When they had both finished their works of art, they got up to admire them. Michael laughingly wrapped his arms around her, whispering to her how funny it was that his was so much bigger than hers. "It makes you look so small," he explained, his warm breath tickling her ear.

Indignantly, Fiona turned as best she could from her position and punched him in the shoulder, hard. He was still chuckling despite the slight wince that crossed his features. "What now?" he asked, looking up and around at the beautiful gift that morning had brought.

Fiona shrugged and stepped away, leaving him to marvel at the newfound idea of snow. Out of nowhere, a cold, round something hit him in the back and dissolved almost on impact. When he turned to look all he saw was Fi standing there with a mischievous smile on her face and an amused twinkle in her eyes. "Think you can handle a snowball fight?" she teased.

Michael promptly stooped down and formed a snowball quickly. He didn't think it could be that hard. The first one died before it even reached Fiona, much to her amusement. The second wasn't much better, but by the third he had the technique and their snowball fight was on. It was one of the most fun, crazy, perfect things they had ever done. It was like a dance and a gun fight all together without the bad music or blood and ten times as much fun. They felt like little kids again, back when girls thought boys had cooties and vice versa, when you hit the boy you liked because no one could ever know you thought he was cute, when snowball fights and dodgeball were the ultimate battles of the playground.

"Truce," Michael called from behind a parked car.

Fiona's head popped up from behind a car across the street. "Truce." They both stood and made their way toward each other. In one swift movement, Fi had launched her last snowball straight at Michael's chest. It hit its mark with a satisfactory thwack.

"What was that for?" Michael asked, still quite a ways from his girlfriend. She just laughed as they got closer together and she wrapped her arms around his neck. His kiss was warm and the feeling had immediately returned to their freezing lips as they stood in the middle of the empty street. "I had a lot of fun, Fi," he began after pulling away and resting his forehead on hers. "But do you think we could maybe go back inside where it's less cold? Maybe get a little more sleep, it's still early."

She grinned at him and nodded. "Sure, and then later you can use your super skills to fix the radiator so we don't freeze again tonight." With a simple pat on his chest and not another word, she turned and walked back to their apartment building with a happy spring in her step. Unable to resist, Michael fired one last snowball at her back, hitting her squarely. She stopped, momentarily surprised, but then turned with a juvenile smile that clearly said 'Race you' and took off through the double doors with Michael right on her heels.

**It's a little fluffy, but I like it overall I think. Anyway, please review and let me know what you think and if you have anything in mind for future chapters. I'm having a friend read the 10 Things I Hate About You chapter so I can polish it a bit and then it'll be up maybe mid-week or so. Other than that, thank you Bits1212 for the comment of drabbles with pregnant Fi. I might do another one or two soonish. Thank you all for reading and reviewing, it completely makes my day!**


	32. Maybe

**I found this icon just now and thought "hey, I could do something with that!" I'm sorry it's taken me so long. I'm working on one and deciding whether or not to post another and WhisperToMeSoftly has kindly beta-ed one that is still in revisions. It may be on its way back when I get the time, but school just started up (today actually) and I'm a little overwhelmed. There may also be a short something about wisdom teeth because I just got mine out and I'm somewhat inspired. Anyway, here you go… and just to clarify, it is in three parts and set at the beginning and middle of season 2 when Campbell was still around and I sort of took liberty with when Fiona showed up to Michael's aid right after the end of Good Soldier (so beginning of Do No Harm) because I don't remember, didn't have time to rewatch and don't think it would fit anyway, so just go with the flow for the last part. =]**

_Maybe I'm over you._

She walked out of the loft leaving Michael still smelling the light scent of her perfume and shampoo and her Fiona-ness even after she had been gone nearly an hour. He knew he could be an idiot at times, but he had never really lost her to it. The defiant look on her face when he saw her two days later, though, told him he would if he wasn't careful. She was flirting, planning dates, shopping for girls for him that he didn't want and would never want. She wasn't teasing him the way she always had. And he just didn't feel right bestowing those small acts of affection that he always had, whether they were together or not.

And that day in the middle of Nowhere, South Florida when they had been going to meet Seymour and a guy had just asked her out, he knew exactly what she was saying. Every move was "Look at what you gave up" and every word was "I don't care what you think" even though he knew she did. She wanted him to want her, to _still_ want her and he didn't want her to know it was working, that he had never stopped.

And in those few words thrown, seemingly without care, over her shoulder at him, "He just asked me out," she had said it all. She had said the one thing he was so afraid of, but he still clung to that word he knew prefaced it at every turn. Between the lines, she was saying "Maybe I'm over you." And despite the pain, or perhaps because of it, he still held on as tightly as he could to the "maybe" because that meant more than anything else of her he could onto anymore.

_Maybe I found someone else._

He guessed that it just hadn't really hit him until that morning, when he first met Campbell. She was far more than flaunting him, and that was no surprise. She was in his face saying "Look who I found who's better at this than you" and he would always let her. It was a small price to pay, no matter how painful, to at least keep her in his life.

At every turn when she had to cancel a date or had to make up an excuse or had to borrow an ambulance, there was that moment of defiance in her eyes that made his chest tight. It was somewhere between an inconvenience, a bargaining chip and a rebound, but all the same she was practically telling him, "Maybe I found someone else."

He took it like a man, well like a Michael sort of man, which wasn't very good, but he tried to make it look that way. He really didn't like Campbell on principle. He was the other man, the one that made him look bad, the one she had found to replace him, the one she could count on and be normal with, even if that wasn't _her_ normal. It still wasn't easy, but the look in her eyes still gave him that "maybe," no matter how sarcastic, for him to hold onto.

_But maybe I'm just a great liar._

When Sam had called to tell Fiona that Michael's door had blown up, she had felt that whole façade she had been building crumble. Everything about that job had been different, but it hadn't really mattered as soon as she saw him and made sure, if only with her eyes from a distance, that everything was still attached to the right places and he wasn't going to keel over any minute, though it was a slight possibility. When he saw her approach to mother-hen over his wounds for a moment, he though he saw something flicker behind her eyes that he hadn't seen there in a few months.

His eyes asked why she was suddenly so interested with his injuries, and didn't she have a boyfriend to tend to? Questions his mouth dared not ask if he valued his life, or appendages at the very least. Her eyes shot back a treacherous answer, one that her mind was not even willing to form into a coherent thought. As she stared back at him her green orbs sighed and told the truth, "Maybe I'm just a great liar," and then they returned to their bright and mischievous normal with a touch of hovering concern, if lacking a bit of the spark that she knew she had been faking for quite some time without him.

**Ok, this was whipped out pretty quickly while I was inspired, so it's a tad shorter than some of the other chapters, but there is one coming, as soon as I've reread it another 12 times (it's funny, but I'm not really kidding, just crazy, lol) and that one is based on the poem from 10 Things I Hate About You. I know what one is coming soon after that, I just have to write it and then hopefully I will have the one that is in revisions that I'm still not quite happy with finished and to you not too long after that. Please drop me a line or a suggestion if there is anything you would like to see while I'm still finishing that one up. =]**


	33. 10 Things I Hate About You

**About the lateness of the hour on this one, I'm sorry. I may not be able to get much of anything to you within the next couple of days. I'm not sure right now. There is a lot of outside stress and it would be more for lack of inspiration than lack of time. Most of my night was spent watching the news because there is a fire burning out of control in the hills a few miles north of my house. In the light I can see the smoke and occasionally the glow of the flames. I had this written and thought I would post it since I was going to anyway and wasn't sure what the status of things around here would be as of tomorrow. I would appreciate a bit of patience in the coming few days while I stress about things I can't control. Welcome to fire season in SoCal.**

**Anyway, this is inspired by 10 Things I Hate About You. Fi's POV.**

_I hate the way you talk to me._

I snapped back at him, "Would you stop thanking me?" It came out a bit harsher than I had intended, but he was getting on my nerves. That's the problem with Michael. On almost everything, he's all or nothing, so he either yells at me or thanks me. I was sick and tired of him alternately disregarding me and acting as if I was the only thing in the world he could count on.

He saw it in my eyes, I think, the way he had set me off, but that didn't make him back off at all. We had gone at it more than once at that point, sniping at each other at every turn. And then, when all I could see was the false anger in his eyes, he slapped me and yelled at me, or my cover at least. That wasn't the issue. Well, it was, it was a huge issue. But what irks me is how fast he can shift gears. He goes from fighting with me a couple of hours earlier to heartfelt apologies that I knew were sincere, despite the fact that I didn't want to hear them, that I just wanted to hate him for a little while.

And the next afternoon, when I was supposed to help him with his job for Strickler, I found another thing I hated about how he talks to me. He doesn't give me his attention. Sometimes he can be so single minded that he was making the final touches to the camera as he tried, halfheartedly, to convince me to go with him. It was like he was so sure I would go, just because it was him, that he wasn't trying very hard. He talked the same way when he was trying to call me back to the loft as I walked out. He obviously didn't think I was really going to leave.

The problem, though, is that I don't really hate the way he talks to me. I love the soft, caring voice he uses that makes me want to forget my independence, if only for a moment. But as far as he should know right now, I hate the way he talks to me.

_And the way you cut your hair._

It used to be different, the way he cut his hair. A long time ago, back when we lived together and he was in the spy game for real, he cut it differently. It was shorter, close to the scalp on the back and sides and quite a bit shorter on top. It was much closer to a buzz cut than it is now. I think that cut made him look younger than his current one.

Of course, that's not completely true. I don't hate his haircut now; I like it better, actually. It's a little longer, a little thicker and I can, or could, run my fingers through it. We don't have that kind of relationship all the time, but when we do I'm glad for this difference. Not that I'll ever tell him that. As far as he knows, I hate the way he cuts his hair.

_I hate the way you drive my car._

He drives it like he drives the Charger. Don't get me wrong, I love the Charger, but my Saab is a precision vehicle, not a 1970s muscle car. It's a brand new convertible sports car with optional stabilization control and air conditioning. It's rare for him to drive my car with me in it because I usually insist on driving it myself, but there are times when I give in and let him. I know he likes to drive, probably as much as I do, and he never got much occasion to on most of his missions overseas. Other people drove, oftentimes to places he didn't want to be, so I give in to his wishes to drive sometimes.

I do like the way he drives my car, though, because I love the way he drives the Charger. He maneuvers a lot and sometimes he drives to fast, but I don't care. I'll sit right there and enjoy the ride while I'm singing along to the radio, which is another reason to take my car. The radio always works, unlike the sporadically functional radio in his car. So for now, I'll just complain halfheartedly and give up a little too easily and let him think I hate the way he drives my car.

_I hate it when you stare._

When I catch him watching me, staring at me, I can't stand it. Does he have to always watch me like that, like he's trying to see through the mask? Of course he does; he's Michael Westen. That's one thing I hate about his training. He's always trying to pick everything and everyone apart because that's what he's always done and he can't change himself now. I understand that, but that doesn't mean I like it.

Then again, when I catch him staring it's nice to know that he cares, that he wants to just keep watching me for a while. Sometimes the look in his eyes is less analytical and more soft, loving, the very thing I missed so much. And maybe it's because I stare at him as much as he stares at me, but I'll just keep letting him think I hate it when he stares.

_I hate your big dumb combat boots._

I do hate his night ops gear. It's stupid how practical it is. Sometimes when we're getting dressed for a job at night and we're both gearing up in all black and cargo pants I want to smack him and ask what he's going to say about our appearance if we get caught, but I don't. He would just tell me that we won't get caught or the black will help us blend into the shadows and avoid detection. I know he's right, but that doesn't make it any less nonsensical in my eyes.

What I don't tell him is why I can't stand when we suit up in our night ops gear. I don't tell him and I won't tell him the thoughts that cross my mind when I look over at him. They are the same thoughts I'm sometimes sure he's thinking when he looks over at me and I see the little sparkles in his eyes. Those thoughts are ones that neither of us has any right thinking considering the unstable nature of our relationship. Unless something changes, I will continue to let him believe that I hate his night ops gear, that I hate his big dumb combat boots.

_And the way you read my mind._

He always did that. Because of it I could never get out those few important things I should have said to him. There were plenty of times when I needed to say something, just to get it off my chest, just to make sure he knew. But he could practically read my mind and had been able to for quite a long time, probably even back when I still thought he was Michael McBride from Kilkenny.

But I've been able to practically read his since then, too, so it evens out. All these years neither of us has really had to say what needed to be said because we're both no good at this and that's just a fact we'd learned to live with. With each other, though, it was okay to not be able to articulate our feelings because he could read my mind. He already knew and so did I. He didn't need to know how much I loved that and how much I trusted him to know that he could practically read my thoughts and not have me running for the hills. He can just go on thinking how much I hate the way he reads my mind.

_I hate you so much it makes me sick_

_It even makes me rhyme_

_I hate the way you're always right._

Every time. Well, almost every time. He's right too damn much and the worst part is: he knows it. But he has that stupid smirk that simultaneously makes me want to smack him and kiss him and that smirk always means he was exactly right and the job was falling into place perfectly. I hate that smirk and his rightness and his training and all of that.

But then, I don't hate that. It's nice that at least someone is right most of the time, or at least is at some point. I'll admit that when he's wrong, things go badly, but when he's right they go very well, or as well as possible, and that's a good thing. And then there's the smirk. I actually love it. It's the half of me that wants to kiss him, but he doesn't have to know that. He can just keep smirking because he thinks I hate the way he's always right.

_I hate it when you lie._

And I really do. When I met Michael he was lying to me. His cover was an Irishman from Kilkenny named Michael McBride. His cover IDs here usually don't involve pulling me into it without fair warning, but sometimes they do and I hate that. I'm glad he trusts me enough to go with it, but that doesn't make it any easier. Like when he slapped me in front of a prisoner to sell the idea of being angry with me. During my 'recuperation' on Madeline's couch, I managed to get out of him why exactly he had to be so angry. He was worried and I do like the fact that he worries about me, though not necessarily the worrying itself.

The thing is, though, he's not a very good liar when he's lying to me. I'm not really sure why. Maybe he wants me to know that he's lying, but that doesn't tell me what the truth really is. Maybe he just can't lie to me, so he forces it and it doesn't work well. Maybe he doesn't try as hard because he knows I'll know he's lying anyway so he doesn't see a reason to expend all that energy. I don't know, but I can usually tell when he's lying and that's nice. The not always being able to figure out the truth is a little frustrating, though.

_I hate the way you make me laugh._

It's too easy for him to make me laugh. I hate that. I feel like I make it too easy for him. Sometimes I wish I could just make him work a little harder for it, but the truth is: I can't help it. He makes me smile and laugh and it's odd that I can really hate that about him. It makes it harder to fight with him sometimes, definitely harder to leave.

I don't actually hate it. That's one of the things I love the most. Our senses of humor are so similar that it helps us get along very well when we aren't ready to kill each other, though that can have some nice results, too. And of course I like making him laugh. We may be terrible at talking about our feelings, but we're terrible at it together. The same with laughing. We're great at laughing at some of the things we've gotten ourselves into over the years, and we're great at that together. So, I could never let him believe I hate the way he makes me laugh.

_Even worse when you make me cry._

I'm not a crier by nature and I never really have been. But for some reason, that man has the ability to make me cry just by being an idiot. And I hate him for that. Considering the number of times he's been the reason for the tears in my eyes, in past years and just in the past few weeks, I guess I've done a lot of hating. I don't think it really requires much explanation as to why him making me cries feels like the worst betrayal, even though I know damn good and well it isn't. It's just that I trust him with everything, with all of me, and I know he trusts me the same, but you don't see me going around making him cry. I suppose, if he does he wouldn't let anyone see, or maybe he has some other outlet that's equal to crying. He did seem pretty shaken up when I told him I was leaving. I just can't keep going on like this, and I hope he sees that now. Because he better know, under pain of death, how much I hate it when he makes me cry.

_I hate it that you're not around and the fact that you didn't call._

When he left me in Dublin all those years ago without a clue as to where he could be or when (or if) he would be back, I hated him. I suppose it was that there was a fine line between love and hate and I had one foot on either side of it. I hated him for leaving, and I was upset because I love him. Of course, I vehemently defended that I hated him for that, too. Mostly, I hated that he wasn't there. He wasn't there to share in everything with me or help me or laugh with me or argue with me or reign me in when my ideas flew off the deep end.

When I think back on it, that time without him really shaped me as a person, though not as much as our time here in Miami has. I guess he's shaped me more than I thought and I hope I've shaped him the same way, by presence and by absence. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know that I have because the act of leaving is as telling as the emotions of the one who was left behind. So maybe I don't hate him for it, but I'm not going to say I love it. So he won't do it again, hopefully, he can just keep thinking I hate it that he wasn't around.

_But mostly, I hate the way I don't hate you, not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all._

For all my talk and all our flaws, I don't hate him. I don't think I'm capable of actually hating him, not truly. I love him far too much and, even though we both suck at saying it aloud, I know he loves me far too much, too. Maybe I hate him for the fact that I don't know how to hate him. It makes no sense, but it is what it is and no matter how much Michael romances it with a cover ID or I shoot at it, our relationship will still be as complicated as it ever was and we'll still be just us. We'll still be trying to figure out how to love each other and not kill each other and how to keep pretending we hate each other sometimes when we both know that we don't and can't. Because, when it really comes down to it, we love each other and that's fine by us.

**I originally wrote this in parts, but I decided it was better together. As a side note for the next chapter or the chapter after that, I haven't decided yet, I will be dropping the f-bomb twice but I will not be upping the rating because the context isn't really "mature" and I've heard worse at the store. The chapter will be titled "Don't Question That" or something along those lines if that language particularly offends you. Just thought I would give fair warning and if you forget it will be at the beginning of that chapter as well. To be honest, I'm not much of a curser, but I know how to if I need it, so my writing tends to have it peppered in a bit. I've rambled long enough, so just drop me a review and let me know what you thought of this or if you have any suggestions.**


	34. Don't Question That

**I'm so sorry this has taken so long to get up. For the rest of the school year I'm going to try to post at least once a week, on the weekends most likely.**

**So this takes place after Long Way Back. There is a vague spoiler for the beginning of that ep in case your haven't seen it. *gasp* Yes I dropped the f-bomb here. Only once in the text of the story and once in the quote. If that offends you I recommend you simply read the next chapter when I post it and skip this one. But like I said before, the context isn't really 'mature' per se so I'm going to leave the rating as is. And yes, I know I was going to do less fighting, but I felt the quote fit them and it sounded like the end of an argument to me and because I've kind of always wanted to write Michael punching a wall, door, etc.

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_I love you. Don't EVER fucking question that._

Fiona was standing at one end of the loft and Michael at the other. They were both screaming across the room at each other about something neither of them could really remember anyway, as per their usual.

"I should have just left when I said I was leaving!" she shouted angrily. It was the first time she had brought it up in an argument since the incident with O'Neil. The world came to a screeching halt and Michael was catapulted back to that moment upstairs when she had said she was going home to Ireland. He knew his expression had lost most or all traces of rage and had been replaced by a look of defeat that he just couldn't hide, not with what she said next. "It doesn't matter. You never loved me, anyway." It was quieter and he wanted to believe she said it because she was mad at him, but it really didn't seem all that likely to him. She sounded too sincere, too upset, too defeated.

He wanted so badly at that point to rush forward and kiss her in a gesture worthy of one of the most dramatic, romantic movies of all time, but that wasn't him, it wasn't them. With those few ragged breaths that rushed from his lips in the century it took his brain to respond all the anger of before came flooding back. And then she contorted her features into an expression of defiant fury, furthering his anger.

Michael raised a finger, as if scolding a naughty child, and gestured forcefully at her as he yelled, deeper and more slowly than before. "I love you! And don't you _**ever**_ fucking question that!" His tone had made Fiona take a stumble step backwards, nearly bumping into the railing of the stairs, which she had to grab onto to keep from losing her balance due to her stumble and the shock of his words. Not since he had left her in Dublin had she heard him say he loved her, or really anyone (except his mother) for that matter, not even jokingly. He'd said it once, in a backwards way, that night on the balcony after Samantha had left but it wasn't the same. And she knew as well as he did that "we're no good at this" meant plenty enough for them both, but to hear him say it with such passion, rage, desperation meant so much more.

Dropping his tense arms loosely to his sides, Michael turned and walked back toward the balcony, pacing back and forth just a bit in front of the door before running his hand through his hair and going outside. Fiona was still standing there, holding onto the railing, a bit stunned. She watched as Michael silently berated himself outside, but none of it really sank in. She was still processing. It wasn't that Michael hadn't cursed at her many times before or that he had never told her he loved her. It wasn't that she hadn't done both of those things once upon a time, too. She had never known Michael to use such a harsh swear _at _her, though. And it had been a very long time since she had last been told she was loved and believed it.

Pacing out on the balcony, Michael silently screamed at himself for losing control. _'Stupid! Idiot!'_ he thought to himself, almost hurting his feet with how hard he was pacing back and forth and shaking his hands as if trying to get the rage to leave his body through the tips of his fingers. The fine line he was walking where the pleasure of the pain became the outlet of the anger was starting to have a profound effect on his mental state. He realized that he should probably go back inside and try to figure out what things were between them now, but wasn't feeling quite masochistic enough yet.

As his imagination began to supply what he thought her responses might be, the frustration he had been feeling came back with a vengeance and he did the only thing his over-stimulated mind could think to do. He turned and punched the one door leading inside that he hadn't opened in his rush to get out. The wood wasn't as forgiving as he would have liked, but it was much kinder to his hand than the wall would have been.

At the loud bang of the door being forced harder into the jamb and the thwack of flesh and bones on wood, Fiona was pulled from her reverie to see Michael shaking the stinging out of his hand and turning back to stare off the balcony and out at the Little River. She saw the door swinging ever so slightly on its hinges and the flaming red skin of Michael's knuckles. Knowing his temper, she needn't even have guessed what had happened. She just knew.

Not sure of the why, perhaps for the same masochistic reasons Michael had tried to put his fist through the door, Fiona managed to push herself away from the stairs and walk across the loft to the balcony. She mimicked his posture, leaning against the rail of the balcony, before turning to watch his face for a moment. It wasn't the mask of imperviousness he would have liked it to be, considering his pain, but it was more neutral than a normal person's would have been. Sighing in slight irritation, she faced his right hand and carefully worked to pull it from its death grip on the rail.

Fiona's hands were gentle as she cradled his much larger hand in her smaller ones. She felt with the precision of a doctor and the tenderness of a lover to make sure nothing was broken or dislocated before massaging it ever so slightly to take away some of his pain. He still wasn't looking at her, but she thought she could see the emotion shining in his eyes that he didn't want her to know was there.

"Michael," she called softly, keeping his injured hand in one of hers while the other moved to gently turn his face toward her. He was quick to comply, but not without her insistence. "I'm glad I didn't leave, and I've never forgotten how I know you feel. Sometimes it just seems like you do."

His free hand had moved to cup her face and keep him in her sightline. "Never," he almost whispered. As Michael's still slightly stinging hand slid from Fiona's grasp to hold onto her waist, she let the hand that had been holding it travel of its own accord up to wrap around him and play with the hair at the base of his neck. Her other hand, trapped between their bodies, gripped at the soft cotton of his t-shirt as he bent to capture her lips in his. There was passion and pent up frustration, but there was also tenderness and love. Michael's hand slowly caressed her cheek as he slid it through her hair and tangled it in the long tresses, holding her as close to him as possible. And there they were, a perfect match, full of anger and pain and frustration and love as they stood there on the balcony, trying to hold on to the moment as long as they could.

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**I have a piece in revisions that will be done soon-ish hopefully and sent back to my wonderful beta WhisperToMeSoftly whose constructive criticism is exactly what I needed. I'll try to keep churning out one or two a week in the meantime if I can. I just started school again and I'm pulling a 4 AP class load this year. Anyway, please drop me a line if you have any comments or suggestions for new chapters. I love song lyrics, quotes, almost any saying that is witty or sarcastic or snarky or "charmingly irreverent" as critics called the BN books. Thanks for reading, everyone!**


	35. Fall to His Knees

**I know I haven't been writing and posting, but in my defense, college apps are killing me! I just started winter break and I was flipping through my icons on photobucket and found this one. I loved it and decided I had to write for it. It's not really overtly used, but I think it fits. So this is a post-Long Way Back one-shot. I know everyone has been writing them, so now I'm trying my hand at it. I also tried to account of the discrepancy that someone (I can't remember who, probably on the USA forum somewhere) pointed out that Sean seemed to be doing better than Fi.**

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I want to be like those girls in the movies, to have a man so in love it makes him drop to his knees._

After finding Diego dead, Michael drove around the city for a couple of hours gathering the supplies he and Sam would later need to reinforce his mom's house while Sean and Fiona recovered. Once he returned to the house, the two of them spent the better part of the evening putting the finishing touches on those defenses while Madeline was at the grocery store and Sean and Fiona were alternately napping and watching TV in the living room. That night, after a long and tiring day, Sam said goodbye to Michael and Madeline and left for home.

Madeline, nearly as tired, kissed her eldest son on the cheek and asked, "Are you staying here tonight, Michael?" He nodded. "Well, try to get some rest." He nodded again before telling her goodnight and watching her slip through her bedroom door.

He crept quietly into the living room where Fiona and her brother were sleeping on the love seat and sofa, respectively. Sean's color was thankfully returning and he seemed to be getting better by the minute. Fiona was much smaller, so the slight collection of unclean water in her lungs was really taking it out of her, even before factoring in the bullet wound to the upper arm that could have easily killed her had it been a couple of inches off.

She looked so tiny, curled up on the love seat and swaddled in a soft blanket, that Michael was enamored just looking at her. He loved her too much; he couldn't keep away from her any longer. Slowly, he fell to his knees beside her makeshift bed and softly stroked her cheek and her hair. Then he lightly traced the curve of her lips with the tip of his finger. She murmured in her sleep and her lips twitched slightly under his touch, giving the impression that she was kissing his finger. Then, Michael pulled both hands together and knelt straighter and did something he hadn't really done in a long time: he prayed.

He prayed for her health, for Sean's health, for their safety, for everything between them to turn out alright. Then he sent up a huge 'thank you' to the Big Man for allowing him to bring her back. Gently unlacing his fingers, Michael kissed Fiona's forehead and rose from his knees, finding getting up to be harder than getting down had been. With his Sig Sauer in his lap and Fi's shotgun within easy reach, he sat down in the chair next to the love seat to keep guard. Nothing and no one would ever take her away from him again if he had any say in the matter. She meant too much.

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I would really love a review if you feel so inclined and maybe a comment on something I'm thinking of writing. I may just write it and decide if I want to post it later. We never see any of Fiona's girlfriends, so I was going to write about her best friend coming from Ireland after Sean gets back and tells everyone what happens. Maybe she knows Michael and forces them to confront some things, or whatever. Any thoughts?**


	36. The Art of Courage

**A/N: I've been tossing this quote around for a while, trying to find something to do with it. I know it would be easy to do something about Long Way Back, but there really isn't anything I could say that hasn't already been so eloquently said. Plus, I'd really like to bring in a line from a movie I was rewatching the other day. I'll let you guys guess what it is and I'll put the answer in the author's note of the next chapter. So this fic stems from my imagination, though the ending set up is quite similar to the mid season finale.**

**Spoilers: Long Way Back, Hot Spot, maybe a few others briefly**

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Courage is the art of being the only one who knows you're scared to death. ~Harold Wilson._

She was gone and that terrified me. This was happening all too often lately and I am not above believing in signs. In covert ops, coincidences always seem far too contrived to be truly coincidences. Covert operatives don't really do random; there is always an objective, but right now mine was a tad clouded by fear. I'm not supposed to let emotions override my training, but I'm human and it happens. The important part is being the only one who knows just how afraid I am. I'm pretty sure it was working…

It had been a Wednesday morning, by all accounts fairly normal. It was warm and humid, nothing new for Miami. There were only two yogurts, a beer and a quarter of a questionable carton of orange juice in my refrigerator, nothing new for my loft. I ate one of the yogurts for breakfast, worked out for a bit and then headed down to Carlito's to meet Sam and Fi. Someone had approached her with a job for us and she wanted to brief us before the meeting with the client. Again, it was nothing new. In retrospect, it was a little too normal; I should have known something was off when I made it all the way to the café without a call from Fiona saying she would be late because of a shoe sale or gun sale, or something else of equal importance.

Sam and I waited for an hour before we got worried and started calling her and my mom. I let Sam handle my mom, though it might have been him letting me handle Fi. Either way, she wasn't picking up and I could hear the voice coming from Sam's cell saying, "Well how am I supposed to know where Fiona is, Sam? Why don't you ask Michael? He should know." I dropped my head into my hand, both at my mother's comment and at the frustration of Fiona's unreachability.

"You think maybe we should head over to her place and check it out?" Sam asked me from across the table. There was a haze of possibilities swirling around in my head and my best friend's suggestion took a minute to get through that thick layer of bad thoughts.

Looking up at him, I finally replied, "Yeah, Sam." I pulled the keys from my pocket and we took the Charger as quickly as possible to Fi's new condo. It looked alright from the outside, but that didn't mean much. The last team that had been sent to snatch-and-grab Fiona was not as professional as they would like to think. They left a lot of damage and obvious signs of violence in their wake. Any good retrieval team who wanted to leave no trace could and would and Sam and I were more than aware of that fact. It was the unsettlingly pristine exterior that first worried me. I stooped to get a better view of the locks on the front door and found fresh scratches on one of them. Almost undetectable to the untrained eye, but if you knew what you were looking for they were hard to miss.

"Lock been picked?" Sam asked as he finished his habitual perimeter scan and saw me inspecting the door knob. I nodded and slowly drew my gun, just in case whatever was inside presented a threat. Sam did the same and watched as I pulled the spare key Fi had given me from my pocket and carefully inserted it into the lock. The door swung open noiselessly before us and we entered, checking to make sure it was clear of possible threats before putting our guns away and starting to look around for signs of what happened. No matter how good a team is, they will always leave some trace.

We split up, me to the bedroom and bathroom and Sam to the living room and kitchen. I checked around each room, under the bed, between the sheets and found no traces of blood or anything really, not even much dust. The bed was remade which could mean that either someone made it or Fiona had just done the laundry since she rarely made her bed when she got up in the morning because it didn't matter to her if she got into a messy bed or not at night. None of her shoes or clothes or suitcases were missing except one short blue dress. So at least she hadn't packed up and left. I know for a fact she would not leave Miami without taking her shoes with her. But that also meant whoever had taken her, as that was my best guess at what happened, had grabbed her while she was barefoot. Whether or not that had any impact on rescue operations, was still questionable.

Satisfied that I could find nothing else of value, I went to join Sam. "Find anything?" I asked.

"Enough snow to stop global warming," he replied, gesturing around at Fiona's snowglobe collection. I looked at the shelves carefully, not noticing any missing or out of place souvenirs, but there was something different about the coffee table, the magazines stacked on the corner were wrong. Sam was busy checking the locks on the windows and looking to see if there might be any telltale scuff marks on the floor, so I rifled through the magazines and found the most recent issue somewhere near the middle. They were all out of order and the copy from three months ago was sitting on top. The stack had definitely been knocked over and rearranged carelessly. It wasn't much, but it was something to start with. When I looked up, Sam was no longer in the room and I could hear the cabinet doors being open and shut.

"Knives have been moved," I said, almost reflexively, the moment I walked into the kitchen and saw the knifeblock so close to the wall. Sam turned around and raised an eyebrow, curious as to how I knew that. "They're too far from the edge of the counter. Fi's short Sam; she wouldn't be able to reach them easily if she needed to."

He nodded in understanding. "How exactly do you know so much about Fi's new place?"

I knew the question was coming, but I didn't think we really had time for it, not that I had much say in the matter. Sam would just ask until I finally answered him. And from a certain standpoint, I could see how Sam could think it might be relevant. "I was with her when she picked the place. And I was blackmailed and bribed into helping her unpack. And I lived with Fiona for a while back in Ireland; I know how she organizes things." Sam nodded again and I could see he was ready to say something.

"So bad guys pick the lock on the front door and come in through there. The window lock in the back has been jimmied too, so they come in from both sides. Fi hears them and realizes it's not you using your key to open the door. She runs to the kitchen to grab a knife. Maybe she's unarmed," he starts explaining while pointing around the condo to illustrate.

"No, Fiona is rarely unarmed. They surprise her and disarm her."

"Either way, it still tracks the same Mike. She runs to the kitchen, grabs a knife and tries to fend them off. There are too many, they overpower her and then they're gone while someone cleans up the mess." I nodded and looked around again, hoping for a different answer. Sam set one hand on my shoulder, jolting me out of my daze and forcing me to realize that I wasn't hiding this very well.

Clearing my throat, I set my face and headed out the back door. I wanted to go check outside the back window to see if there was anything else we could work with. When I got there I found exactly what I was hoping I'd find, but it wasn't a good thing. There was a boot print in the soft dirt at the base of the wall, just below the window. The problem was not that there was a print; we already knew someone had come in through the window. It was the fact that the print was that of a military boot. The United States Military.

In the Charger on the way back to the loft, I had Sam call my mom while I called Nate. We were all meeting at her house to figure things out. I ran inside, grabbed an extra gun, a couple boxes of bullets and a change of clothes and then got back in the car to drive to my mom's. She was waiting inside the door for us lighting a cigarette with the end of the previous one and holding her shotgun.

"Hi Maddie," Sam greeted as I checked the door for the hundredth time and made sure everything was closed and locked securely. If nothing else, it would delay any would-be attackers for a few seconds.

"Hi Mom. Is Nate here yet?" I asked, not really stopping to hug or anything. I was on a mission and I needed to stay that way or I would start imagining horrible things that would not be helpful to finding Fiona.

She nodded and pointed with her cigarette to the kitchen. "He's in the kitchen making a sandwich." I walked into the room and found him standing at the counter biting into a turkey, lettuce and tomato sandwich with vigor.

"Sorry, Bro. I was hungry," Nate apologized with a mouthful, so it sounded more like, "Showwy, Bwo. I wash ungrwy." I waved off his apology. It didn't matter to me; I had been known to do the same from time to time. At the moment, I was more worried about the Fiona situation than my kid brother's atrocious table manners, or counter manners as the case may be.

Setting the black duffel bag I had been holding on the counter, I unzipped it and pulled out the extra gun I had grabbed. "You might need this. I want you to make sure Mom is safe, too. I don't know who's coming after Fiona or if they're after me. You two need to stay safe though." He took it and clicked on the safety, tucking it into the waistband of his jeans and covering the grip with his t-shirt.

"Do you know what happened yet?"

I shook my head. "I'm going to make a few calls and then we'll figure out what to do." He nodded and continued eating his sandwich while I headed off to what used to be my bedroom to make a phone call. I had the 411 operator connect me and then the switchboard operator picked up. "Agent Jason Bly, please," I requested and was almost immediately connected.

"Hello."

"Hey Bly."

"What do you want?" he asked. Maybe we were getting to know each other too well.

"What makes you think I want anything? I can't call just to chat?" I replied with mock sincerity that he saw through the second he heard it.

"Sure, but you aren't. What is it? We're even, remember? I don't owe you anything."

"No, you don't. But how would you like me to owe you a favor. You know I'm good for it. All I need is a little bit of information. Just something to point me in the right direction, that's all."

He paused for a moment, as if considering my offer. "Fine. What do you need?"

"There was a covert snatch-and-grab here in Miami sometime last night at 345 S Miami Ave. I know that it was successful, I know who was grabbed, and I know how, but who ordered it and why would be helpful. Anything really." I realized a second too late how desperate I must have sounded, but Bly didn't comment and I silently thanked him for that.

I heard the tiniest intake of breath, sharp and tinny on the other end of the line. He'd just read what happened and I steeled myself for the information I needed and wanted but didn't want to hear. "Michael, I don't need to tell you that Fiona has been running guns. An order came from pretty high up in the CIA and they sent a team to bring her in for questioning. Chances are it's a play against you, whether for information or to send you a warning. Neither is very good. I can tell you where she might be. There's a safe house off Old State Road 905, just after it becomes County Road 905. North Key Largo, north of Lake Simmons but south of the wildlife refuge. That's all I can tell you."

"Thank you. If you ever need anything, well, you know where to find me," I relied, truly grateful. I heard Bly chuckle a little over the phone, probably glad I at least could be sarcastic about my predicament now.

"Oh, and Michael," he began, catching me before I hung up. "Good luck." Then he was gone all I had was information and determination. Before I left the room I stopped to look at myself in the small mirror hanging on the wall, a remnant of my mom's attempt to make the house look sellable. I wish I could say I barely recognized the look in my eyes, but I had seen it there far too much to lie to myself like that. I was scared to death and it was best that I come to terms with that before I went any further with this. Once my mask of determined fearlessness was in place, I went back into the dining room where Sam was keeping my mom and Nate company.

"You got something, Mike?" Sam asked, setting down his beer to look at me.

"Yeah, we're going to have to go on a little field trip and we don't really have time to do the recon work on this first. We're going to have to do it all in one go," I replied, not caring if it sounded a little crazy. From experience, I knew that most CIA operatives did not sympathize with arms dealers, even if the interrogation had nothing to do with the arms dealer herself. "We need a truck and some woodland stakeout supplies."

Nate piped up at that point saying, "I've got a buddy who will lend me his truck, as long as we don't blow it up." I nodded at him with a sort of half smile, acknowledging his truck that I blew up, sort of. Sam said he could get the gear we needed and within two hours we were on our way. I drove Nate's friend's truck through Virginia Key and down into North Key Largo.

"Ok, we've passed the wildlife refuge. How much farther?" Sam asked from the passenger seat.

"Right after the old state road becomes the county road, right Mike?" Nate added, popping up at me and Sam's shoulders from the backseat. I just nodded in reply and kept driving, watching for anything suspicious and making sure we didn't have a tail. "Ok, Bro, this is the county road." I nodded again and looked around. A minute or two later I saw it, or them. Three large driveways in a row, the only ones for miles and I just knew it was there. I've learned to trust that instinct over the years.

"It's there," I said, pointing out the window. "That's where I would put it. Secluded, ocean access. Perfect." My companions both nodded in agreement as I pulled off the road a few electric poles later and drove through the chain blocking the entrance to the clearing. We parked there and started to get ready. Night was approaching too quickly for me to worry about being afraid. By the time it was dark, I was ready to do the quickest recon I could ever remember. I just needed a rough map of the layout and the guards, and then we would come back and get Fi a bit later. I trekked through the wooded area between our clearing and the compound. Once I got far enough in I started memorizing what was important. I watched the operatives moving around and I could tell this safe house hadn't been used in a while.

Quietly, I picked my way back to the guys. "They have her in the house. It's about a quarter of a mile north of here. Not a lot of guards and they aren't prepped for a firefight. I think we can take them."

Sam sat us down with a sandwich each from my mom while I set up each of us with the proper gun. I knew Nate had the SIG I'd given him earlier, so I just passed him three extra clips in case things got out of hand. Sam had his shotgun and I was pretty sure he had something else in his bag if he thought he needed it. Then I pocketed two clips of ammo for my own SIG and grabbed a .22 caliber, in case things got really bad and Fiona needed something to shoot. That's when I realized she was barefoot and I would probably be carrying her the quarter mile back to the truck. It wasn't carrying her that was the problem. Fiona weighed maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, but I knew I couldn't shoot whilst carrying her, so I left the .22. If it came down to it, she could shoot my SIG and we'd both be covered.

As dawn approached, the three of us carefully picked our way through the tropical forest and managed to get to the house without incident. Nate and Sam fanned out to cover me while I went in to get Fiona. I scanned the lower level and found nothing, so I crept up the stairs, sticking to the wall to minimize creaking. I found the only locked door at the end of the hall and set to work picking it. It was relatively simple, a little more complex than the average, but nothing I couldn't pick. In less than thirty seconds I was in the room cutting through Fi's bindings with my knife.

"Michael Westen," a deep voice said from the doorway. I turned to face him, shaking Fi awake with the hand not busy drawing my gun. He was familiar, Fred Desh, an old instructor, taught torture back in the day and interrogation, which was his code for torture anyway. He was one of the few people I actually despised more than my father. "Are you going to shoot me Michael? Go on. Do it. Pull the trigger," he goaded.

For a moment, I considered doing it. I would still sleep like a baby. "No. You don't deserve the star they'd give you on the wall at Langley." With that, I stuck my knife deep into his arm, grabbed Fi's hand and half pulled her down the stairs. At the front door, I could still hear Desh upstairs moaning in pain. "Can you run until we get to the trees?" She looked out the slightly open door at the ground. Not too many rocks, mostly leaves and grass. Then she nodded and placed her hand in mine, ready to get out of there. I locked eyes with Sam, making sure he knew we were ready to call it in and he was to follow behind and cover us. I looked at Fi to be sure she was ready and we ran, straight north toward a small road on the other side of which there were denser trees and bushes and less chance of being shot.

Once we were far enough to be out of range and sight, Fiona pulled for me to stop as she leaned against a tree. Her feet must have hurt from the unmaintained road, but she wouldn't complain because she knew we had to get back safely. I crouched down in front of her and pulled her onto my back. She hooked her arms around my shoulders and I put mine under her knees and we were on our way.

"Your bravery in these situations always amazes me Michael. If it were you in there I would be terrified, angry and violent, but terrified," Fi said into my ear as she rested her chin on my shoulder. "How do you do it?"

"The trick is being the only one who knows you're scared to death. I'm just glad you're safe." I felt her lips brush my jaw in the ghost of a kiss before tucking her head into the crook of my neck and fighting the urge to grin. She hates being called weak, but I know she secretly loves the fact that I always come rescue her.

**

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So this is officially my longest chapter by 50-ish words. It sort of ran away with me. I enjoyed writing it, but it took the scenic route to the end. =]**

**Anyway, there is one character name reference, one direct line quote and one line reference to a movie that I love and have been watching a little too much lately. If you want to take a guess in a review I think that would be awesome. Virtual yogurts to all that get it right! And I will post the answer in the author's note of the next chapter.**


	37. Secret 1: Cold

**Author's Note:** Hello! It's been a while since I've posted anything and I still can't guarantee that will change. I just started college and that takes up a lot of time. But I'm still here. In fact, I found a series of icons on my Photobucket that I feel inspired to write about. So here is the first one. Think of each one as said from Fiona's point of view. I feel like a lot of them are going to be set pre-series, like probably in Ireland. But I'm not certain yet. I do know that they will have, at the very least, undertones of Micheal/Fiona and usually will be more than just hints.

On another note, I just finished watching Guilty As Charged and I loved it. I can't wait until November! And that's saying something since I've been in college half the time from now til BN and it already feels like a lifetime. A really awesome lifetime, though.

I'm trying to make these longer, but sometimes they object to being stretched out. I only have 2, 3 and 6 written so far, and 3 and 6 are longer. Anyway, I hope to get them to you as quickly as possible, but that's not always an option some weeks. I go to bed late enough as it is. =]

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"_Secret #1: Sometimes I look cold just you'll hold me."_

The Irish autumn had come in quickly that year, blustering into Dublin with chilly winds and cloudy skies. Fiona had grown up with half of her year being freezing, but that wasn't the only reason she shivered. Walking down the street with Michael toward their apartment, she gave a slight shudder, knowing he would pick up on it immediately.

"Are you cold, Fi?" he asked in his fake Irish brogue. She only shivered again in response. Smiling, he wrapped his arms around her tiny torso, sealing in their body heat as they walked along the mostly empty pavement. He placed one impossibly sweet kiss on her windswept hairline as they reached their building and he unlocked the door.

It was a race up the stairs to their apartment where the radiator and blankets were waiting for them. Fi hung up their coats and Michael started the radiator and the kettle for some hot cocoa in their tiny flat. By the time he met her in the living room (corner really) with two steaming hot cups of cocoa with marshmallows, she had already put on a pair of his sweats and a pair of his socks and was curled up on the couch waiting for him. When Michael sat down Fiona gave another little shiver.

"Are you still cold?" A tiny nod. He put his arm around her shoulders again and curled her body toward him, but her skin didn't feel as chilled as it did outside. In fact, she felt as warm as he was. "Liar," he whispered with a laugh in his voice. "You aren't that cold."

"Of course I am," she defended transparently. "Now shush, I'm comfortable." Michael smiled. He loved that she pretended to be cold because it gave him an excuse to just hold her for a while and savor the time they would have.

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So there's the first one. Drop me a review if you'd like and let me know what you thought. I'm still writing one-shots to quotes so if you have ideas for that or for this particular series of icons (things you'd love to see, thing's you want me to keep out, or even a great description or line) I'd love to read about it. Thanks for reading!


	38. Secret 2: Beautiful

**A/N:** Like I said before, this one is shorter than the last. I may rewrite it later to be a bit longer and more thought out, but for now this is how it's going to be. It's set in season 2, the exact episode I can't quite remember. But Fiona and Michael are going to see Seymour and things go wrong in there, but he tells her she looks beautiful before they walk in. A great moment, mostly because of its simplicity.

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"_Secret #2: She needs to hear that she's beautiful."_

It had been a long time since he'd said those words to her, really anything endearing or sweet that wasn't hidden behind work. And Campbell was nice and he always had a million compliments, but it wasn't the same. She didn't love him. Never would. She could never feel the way about anyone else that she felt about Michael.

"You look beautiful, Fi," he'd said without a moment of hesitation or fear or confrontation. It was simple, easy, the way it used to be. Except that he was avoiding the elephant in the room that was her boyfriend. It didn't matter though because she was smiling the rest of the night and it wasn't just because of the gun she'd taken with her from Seymour's. Every once in a while she needed to hear that he still thought she was beautiful. Of course, she didn't know that his mind supplied that word every time she was in the room, and most of the time when she wasn't.

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So there it is. If you liked something or hated something leave a review and let me know. Or if you just remember the episode name that I can't and would like to tell me, I'd be grateful.


	39. Secret 3: Endlessly

**A/N:** I'm sooooo sorry I didn't get this up sooner. I had it written, I promise. But midterms started and I had to study and then I was in New York and things got hectic. Anyway, here's the third chapter. Personally I loved writing this chapter because I love fluff more than I probably should. And I can't wait for Burn Notice to come back on Nov 11! 11/11 at 11:11 is going to be an epic wish! (my suitemates and I are way into that I guess). Without any further comments from me, your chapter...

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"_Secret #3: All she wants is someone that will love her endlessly."_

Coming off a bad break up is always hard, and it was always extremely hard for Fiona. She didn't get attached too easily, but she always kicked herself for not putting enough into a failed relationship, thus causing it to fail. With Michael, though, it wasn't her fault and she only could think that for about a second. He'd left in the middle of the night and it wasn't because of her. It was him.

Was it so much to ask for someone to love her forever?

She supposed so.

It took her two days to find them…

Her eldest brother's wife, Marie, had been worried about her overindulging in either chocolate or weaponry and had driven into the city to check on her sister-in-law. Finding her sitting on the couch still dressed in sweatpants and a tank top and sipping a cup of tea in front of a sad movie, Marie's fears were not in any way lessened, only shifted.

"Hi Fiona," the kind young woman greeted. "How are you doing?" For the moment, Fiona seemed to be keeping a stiff upper lip, not only holding back her feelings of abandonment and hurt, but perhaps also pushing them in the opposite direction.

"I'm fine," she replied, despite the fact that she looked as if she hadn't slept the night before and had nearly ransacked parts of the apartment looking for something.

"What happened in here?"

"He left, that's what happened." Then the dams broke. Marie took the tea cup from her hands as she steered her to the couch. Tears were flowing down her face, both in horrible sorrow and in fierce anger. "I thought he was the one! That he would stay no matter what and love me forever and it wouldn't matter what happened. It was stupid. He's gone. I was looking for something that he might have left, but there isn't anything. He disappeared without a trace."

When Fiona had cried herself quiet, Marie spoke, "It's not stupid because he really does love you and he will for the rest of his life. Trust me. I've seen the way he looks at you. If your brother looked at me the way Michael looks at you, well, you'd probably have a lot more nieces and nephews by now." Fi smiled a little, but inside she was relishing every word. "Come on, you look like hell. You need to sleep." Fiona allowed herself to be lead into the bedroom where she pulled open her drawer to get some clean pajamas. Lying there on top of her flannel pants and shorts and tank tops were four neatly folded t-shirts. Black, dark blue, dark green and white.

Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes again. He wasn't completely gone. There was still a trace of him in their apartment and in her life. She grabbed the first shirt in the stack, the black one and changed into that before crawling into bed, snuggling around his pillow and breathing in his smell on the pillowcase and the collar of his shirt. The next morning she got up and felt refreshed, ready to get back to life knowing that he would be there in her heart and he would be thinking of her. When she slipped off his t-shirt, she noticed something that she hadn't the night before: a 'PS' written on the tag of the shirt in Sharpie. Figuring it was the initials of a cover ID he'd had before he met her, she paid it no mind as she folded up the shirt and went to put it back in the drawer.

As she moved the shirts to restack them in her dresser, she noticed that the other shirts had writing on the tags too. So Fiona pulled them out and set them on her bed in the order they were stacked in drawer.

_PS I Love You_

It wasn't a note or a goodbye kiss or any form of explanation but it was enough to make her happy for the week it took her to find the oversized sweatshirt he'd left for her too. Maybe, she supposed, it wasn't so far-fetched that someone could love her forever.

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Yes, it was cheesy and romantic, but I can hope. Besides, I think Michael really will love Fiona for the rest of his life. Consider this my written manifestation of that. Let me know what you think, if you liked it or didn't. Drop me a line if you feel like it, or just head over to my profile, I have a little amusing thingy on there that I change when I update. =]


	40. Secret 4: Cooties

**A/N:** I'm sorry this took so long to get up. I had midterms and lots of crazy crap and a semi-breakdown. Problems with my plan to get back to college after Thanksgiving. I may couch surf down the east coast. Anyway, I wanted to get another one written before I posted another pre-written one so I finally did that tonight. I have up to number 7 written and I may write numbers 8 and 9 tomorrow since my class was canceled. Um, I really enjoyed writing this one so I hope you like it, especially since I think most girls can agree with this. Well, here it is...

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"_Secret #4: Life was so much easier when boys had cooties."_

Fiona Glenanne hadn't always been a flirt. A long time ago, when she was just a girl playing in the schoolyard with her friends, she wasn't so interested in boys for anything except someone to roughhouse with. She always wanted to play rugby with her brothers and as they grew up, she wanted them to teach her how to fight and shoot and blow things up. Only her oldest brother taught her anything and it was only because he wanted her to be able to protect herself when she started dating.

"That's never going to happen," a seven-year-old Fiona laughed. "I'm never going to date a boy."

"Oh yeah?" Liam asked with a smile. "Why's that?"

"Boys have cooties," she replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then she punched him in the shoulder, hard, and reminded him that he was supposed to be teaching her how to fight.

As she entered the upper forms at school she did start dating and flirting, very effectively mind you. Her brother had been smart to teach her to fight at such a young age, even if that meant eight years of her fighting with kids at school and the rest of her brothers. Fiona was beautiful, of that there was no doubt, and boys were generally putty in her hand. But sometimes they had other things on their mind and she was always able to put them in their place with a well-placed punch or kick or a reminder that if she didn't rough them up enough she had five brothers that would gladly do so.

Despite her success with boys, she still wished for the days back when they had cooties. Things were so much easier back then. She didn't have to deal with emotions she didn't quite understand. Boys had cooties and therefore were not important. It was that simple.

Then she grew up and used men to get what she needed for the IRA. It was easy, like back when boys had cooties. There were her fellow IRA members, who were like her brothers when she was a kid, and there were marks and targets and assets, who were like the boys with cooties. Emotions didn't get involved. It was that simple again.

Until a man named Michael McBride from Kilkenny showed up and things got complicated. Emotions got involved and she fell in love with an asset who ended up telling her that not only was she an asset as well, but he was also an American spy named Michael Westen. But by that time it didn't matter. She was in love with him. For the first time, emotions were important in her relationship and things got harder. Times were good, usually, and she was happier with him, but it was still hard. Always keeping a secret, telling a lie, knowing that her family would never approve, and avoiding the fact that at some point he would have to leave.

Things would have been easier if boys could have had cooties forever, but then she wouldn't have Michael.

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So that was it. Please drop me a review if you feel so inclined. I'm taking suggestions for what to write after this set of secrets. I kind of want to do something from Michael's POV. I do have somehting that is almost finished that should be up before the end of the month. I'm slowly progressing on another BN fic and I've just started a Psych/Burn Notice crossover that I hope you all will enjoy so keep on the lookout and I will do my best to keep you informed. Thanks for reading!


	41. Secret 5: Argue

**A/N:** Hey there, so I finished writing 8 and 9, though I may go back and redo 8 because I'm not sure I like it that much. But that mean that I'll be posting another tomorrow evening, even if I don't get a chance to write tomorrow (stupid midterm and then work). I really loved writing this one, possibly because it is similar to the earlier chapters. In my mind, Michael and Fiona are always either fighting or sleeping together, often times both. I just feel like this is so true for both of them. Enjoy.

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"_Secret #5: I'd rather argue with you than kiss someone else."_

Fiona and Michael were having another argument about Jesse and his burn notice. It wasn't the first of the week, or even the day, and they were really starting to take their toll. Michael was just as set in his ways as ever and Fiona was just as frustrated, but their constant fighting reminded her of too many bad times. It was all building up and there was nothing she could do about it.

"Why won't you listen to me?" she yelled across the loft. "He wants to kill the person who burned him! Accidental or not, that's you! That's us!"

"You think I don't know that, Fi? That is why we're trying to get him back in!" he yelled back.

"Somehow I don't think that's going to magically fix the problem. He's going to figure it out at some point and then what are you going to do?" she asked, breathless and frustrated.

"I don't know Fi! I'm hoping we don't have to find out!"

"You want to hear the way I think it's going to go? You're going to take a bullet. Jesse is going to shoot you and your meeting with Barrett is going to get blown to hell. And if you're really lucky, you might live. And if you're not so lucky, well…" She shrugged her shoulders in forced nonchalance before brushing quickly past him to the balcony, her bare feet padding loudly across the floor.

Michael practically deflated, all of the anger rushing out through his equally bare feet. It was night and he was shirtless in a pair of jeans, fresh out of the shower. The air was still warm and breezy, but he still didn't want Fi to stand out on the balcony all night like she was bound to if he didn't go talk to her. He stepped over the threshold and heard a tiny sniffle.

"Fi?" he asked quietly. "I'm sorry, for all the fighting. Are you alright?" She didn't answer really, just turned around and he saw the tears welled up in her eyes.

"We're always fighting. Why? Why can't we just talk and be together and be happy with each other like we used to be?"

"I don't know, Fi," he replied, softly this time. "Why are you crying?" he asked just as softly, reaching out to wipe the tears from her eyes.

"Because I can't deal with you getting almost killed, again. And I hate fighting with you," she said, leaning against the wall and staring out at the city lights through the palm trees.

"Then why have you stuck with me all these years? Like you said, all we seem to do is fight."

"Michael, I would rather argue with you than kiss anyone else. I thought you knew that," Fi replied with a small smile.

Smiling back, Michael cupped her face in his hands and brought his lips down to meet hers. After a moment, he pulled away and reached down to take her hand. "Come on, it's getting late. Let's get some sleep and we can figure out the Jesse situation tomorrow, ok?" She nodded and allowed herself to be lead back into the loft where she changed into one of Michael's t-shirts and slid into bed next to him. In a second, she was curled up against him with her head on his chest and him kissing the top of her head and whispering a soft "Good night" in her ear.

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Please leave me a review if you want to let me know what you thought. I will try my best to have the next chapter uploaded tomorrow evening. And I will hopefully be able to write 10 and 11 over the weekend. Not really any farther along with my other fics I promised. I may have news tomorrow. I hope you like it! Thanks for reading!


	42. Secret 6: 3 AM

**A/N:** This is actually the first chapter I wrote, but I wanted to do all of them and post them in order, hence why this is not being posted until now. I know that I said I would post this yesterday but some crazy stuff went down after I got back from work. Dinner and hanging out in another building and getting busted by the RA. It was a little bit insane. Then I ended up just hanging out with the not drinking people and my one somewhat drunk friend until 4 a.m. This is the first time I've had any time to sit down and get this posted. Oh, and I think I did much better on my midterm than I expected. So I'm in the mood to write because I'm happy about that. So things for this and other fics should be getting some attention today. =] Without any further rambling from me, the next chapter.

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"_Secret #6: It's every girl's dream to have a guy call her at 3 a.m. just to say 'I love you.'"_

It's been over a decade now since the first time he called her in the middle of the night…or morning if you choose to look at it that way. He was working in Dublin and they had been dating for quite a while, but they weren't living together yet. It was almost three in the morning and Michael was awake for reasons he still doesn't fully understand when he got the urge to pick up the phone and call Fiona. After three rings, she grumbled a muffled 'Hello?' into the receiver.

"Hi Fi," Michael replied quietly, forgoing the Irish brogue he affected during the day.

"Michael, do you know what time it is?"

"I know, I just wanted to talk to you, but I'll let you go back to sleep. I love you," he said, waiting for her reaction. It was the first time he'd ever told her.

"I love you, too. Now go to sleep. I'll see you tomorrow," she replied, the sound of a sleepy smile lacing her voice. Michael went to bed that night with a smile on his face and a calm in his restless soul that hadn't been there before.

One year to the day after that call, he rolled over in bed and gently roused Fi from her sleep, just to say that he loved her. She laughed at him and rolled her eyes before snuggling into his chest and telling him to go back to sleep.

Five years later to the day, was the first time he'd had access to a phone on that date since he'd left Ireland. But Fiona wasn't speaking to him, not after he left in the middle of the night without so much as a note. On his encrypted phone he dialed her home number at three in the morning in Ireland. In a flat in Belfast, Fi picked up the cordless phone and stared at the 'Private Caller' on her caller ID. If it was that early she assumed it must be important, so she answered it. The other end of the line was silent, even as she called 'Hello?' over and over. Michael never told her that he'd called that night just to hear her voice. Fiona never told him she knew it was him when she heard the quietest of sniffles right before he hung up the phone.

As Michael was traipsing around Afghanistan and Fiona was swindling New York bankers, he became privy to her cell phone number. At three in the morning Eastern time, two years after his hang up call, he texted Fi three words. "I Love You." She didn't tell him, but she saved the text message and forwarded it to her email where it was archived and has remained ever since.

Every year on the same day at the same time in Miami, Michael called Fi if he was able to and told her the same thing. Usually he just hung up after a quick goodnight, whether he was talking to her or her voicemail. This year, however, she couldn't help but ask a question before he let her go back to sleep.

"Why this day, out of all the others? It's the same day every year," she asked before Michael had a chance to hang up.

"Because I saw you for the first time at three in the morning on this day fifteen years ago on a stakeout and that was the moment I decided you were worth the risk, all the risks."

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Cheesy ending? Maybe, but I like it. =] Drop me a review and let me know what you think and if you have any suggestions for things I could do after this set. I have quotes that I may eventually turn to, but I love suggestions!


	43. Secret 7: Makeup

**A/N:** This chapter is keeping with the pre-series theme I've been using quite a bit (it just fits so well). But this one introduces Fiona's niece because I like the idea that the Glenanne family is very close and I think Fi would probably need someone to talk to. Thus, this chapter is dedicated to my roommate who happens to share a name with this OC, even though she was created before I met my roommate. lol

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Secret #7: "Smiles and make up cover up so much these days."_

It had been three months. Three months of the same old life. Three months of her life since he'd left. It hadn't gotten any easier to come home to that same empty flat in Dublin that had once been filled with their laughter and his smile and his scent and their clothes hastily discarded on the floor and the scent of him cooking her dinner and their shared tactical prowess and their gun oil and his toothbrush in the cup with hers and his razor in the shower. No, it hadn't gotten any easier to come home and see everything that _wasn't _there. But she pretended it had. Especially when people were coming over.

Today it was her niece. Fi had driven out to her eldest brother Liam's house and picked up her niece so her brother and sister-in-law could have some time to go to the doctor without dragging their 'protesting' preteen with them. Marie, Liam's wife, was pregnant with twins, but she hadn't needed time away from her daughter. She convinced Fiona that she did because she was certain that Fi needed some quality time with her niece.

Thus, Katherine Glenanne was sitting in the passenger seat of her aunt's car with her backpack in the backseat. They were planning on having a movie marathon that night over some ice cream and Katherine was really hoping to cheer up her aunt. She may have thought she was covering well, but the rest of the family was far from convinced. When pulled into the parking space in front of the building, Fi let out the most imperceptible of sighs and made her way up to their—her flat with her twelve-year-old niece in tow. She unlocked the door and tried to keep her impenetrable smile in place as she stepped inside. Katherine set down her things and dropped onto the couch pretending, as her aunt did, that nothing was amiss.

Sitting together on the couch of the flat in front of the TV, Fiona and Katherine sat watching the movies the latter had brought for this occasion: The Princess Bride and You've Got Mail. It was by design, not coincidence, that both movies had elements of Fiona and Michael's story. He had left, but would undoubtedly return again and still love her, just like in the Princess Bride. And just like in You've Got Mail, he wasn't exactly who he said he was at the beginning. Of course, Katherine didn't know this for certain, but she had a feeling that she hadn't expressed to any other members of the family. Every few minutes, Katherine would glance over at Fiona and notice that she couldn't hold her mask perfectly.

It was an off-limits topic in their family. No one mentioned Michael's sudden disappearance from their lives, and if they did it was most definitely not in front of Fiona. However, when they finished the movies, Katherine turned to her and saw that she was by no means alright.

"Do you miss him, Aunt Fi?" she asked quietly, laying a hand on her aunt's shoulder.

Fiona could only nod. "But don't tell your father or your uncles. They'll think it's stupid." Katherine nodded before her aunt got up and told her good night, deciding to take a shower. Lying on the couch reading a book before going to sleep, the twelve year old could hear her aunt's sobs and truly understood. If Fiona knew that her niece had been awake and heard it all, she didn't say. And to her credit, Katherine made no mention of the previous night's revelations either.

After showering and dressing for the dance class Fiona was taking her to after breakfast, Katherine met her aunt in the kitchen where she was cooking pancakes. They ate together before gathering their things and making their way to the door.

"Do you have everything?" Fi asked, turning around to look at her niece.

"Yup," she replied. "Oh, hold on. Stay still." Katherine reached up with her thumb to a spot under Fiona's left eye where a bit of make-up hadn't blended and had inadvertently revealed a bit of the dark circles she was covering. "Just missed a spot." Then she smiled like it was nothing at all and they left the flat.

Once they reached the countryside town where most of the rest of the Glenanne family still lived, Fiona turned down the street toward the ballet studio and parked the car. She walked in with Katherine who sat down beside Fi's chair to tie up her point shoes.

"Aunt Fi, I know the family doesn't like to talk about it and that make-up and smiles cover up so much, but I'm here if you need anyone," she said, wise beyond her years in what she knew her aunt needed. Not just an ear to listen, or a shoulder to cry on, but a friend to understand.

"Thank you sweetie. Now go dance," Fi replied, kissing the top of the girl's head and smiling more genuinely than she had in the last three months.

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**A/N: **I wish I could say the next chapter will be quick because I have a great idea for the one I need to write before I can post secret 8 (which I like a lot) but I have a lot of term papers and things due soon, so it may be longer than I'd like, but I'm hoping by the weekend or Monday.


	44. Secret 8: Alone

**A/N: I rewrote part of this based on an experience of my own with a vivied sensory memory. It's an interesting thing to be able to feel something after it's not touching you anymore. Anyway, I really like this one because I get to use more of Fiona's backstory and I always find that so much fun to play with. Well, here it is: Secret #8!**

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_Secret #8: "It's hard to have no one want to hold you when you feel alone."_

Fiona Glenanne had gotten used to being on her own. Her brothers had tried to protect her most of her life, but she had pushed away their protection and the IRA's when she had opted for a freelance gig. Of course, she hadn't expected to find herself as utterly alone as she did only a short time later. Her bags had been packed and her snowglobes were boxed up next to the door. Liam was standing in the doorway trying to beg her to stay, but not quite able to bring himself to take that determined look off her face. He didn't want to see her crying; he wanted her to move on after Michael. But he also didn't want his little sister to be any more jaded. Though, he was smart enough to know he couldn't reverse the damage that had already been done.

"That's all of my snowglobes. If you break one I will personally come back to kick your ass. I will send you an address to mail them to," she said briskly, slinging a backpack over her shoulders, grabbing her duffel bag and pulling out the handle on her rolling suitcase. Then she reached up to kiss him on the cheek. And then she left. Left him standing blankly in her barren apartment.

For a little while Fiona kept living in Ireland. Not Belfast or Dublin, where she had lived with Michael and most certainly not Kilkenny where his cover had been from. She lived in Limerick for a little while, maybe two months, with a friend and then she got on a plane and went to America. Liam sent her things and Sean smuggled her guns over. She set up shop in New York, finding a place among the Bohemians of the East Village and finding rich bankers to swindle on the Upper East Side. She rented a converted loft in Alphabet City where she still bought and sold guns and often thought about how far her life was from what she had once hoped it would be.

It was one of those cold New York nights that she found herself awake in the bed of a man who thought he could maybe love her, or at least sleep with her more than once, for another month or two. It wasn't love or even like. It was cold, emotionless quasi-companionship. She left a fake cheerful note on the nightstand that said she was just going out for a walk. Slipping into jeans, boots a sweater and her coat, Fi left the apartment and walked down the street in the never dark of the wee hours of the morning. New York was as lit up as ever and as alive as it seemed in the day, except for the small, Irish woman trekking south toward something, though what she didn't know.

It was hours later, as the sun was rising and people were starting to head off to work that Fiona sat down against the storefront of a shop that had yet to open for the day. Her legs were bent up in front of her and her arms were wrapped tightly around them. There were so many people passing in front of her on the street. Some faces were familiar, most were not and every so often she would catch a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired man and her heart would leap for a second. Then, each time, she would realize how ridiculous she seemed. But no matter how many faces of people she knew passed her by, whether real or imagined, she still felt so alone. It was hard to feel that way. Even harder when there was no one anywhere who wanted to just sit and hold her. She wrapped her arms even tighter around her legs, as if trying to hold all of her emotion in and protect it from passersby, as if trying to recall the exact feeling of his arms around her keeping her safe and warm all night long.

It had been a long time since she'd really seen him or felt him. But if she closed her eyes and remembered she could feel his hands, smooth and rough at the same time, cupping her face, could feel the smooth expanse of his chest, marred only by the occasional scar, against her back, could feel the slightly stubbled and scarred angles of his face pressed into the palm of her hand, could feel the strength of his arms around her shoulders. She missed him, missed being home in his arms, missed walking hand-in-hand down the streets of Dublin, missed playing in the snow with him, missed looking up at him over a bomb and knowing he was feeling the same thing. It was so hard to be alone with no one to hold you. She felt sorry for him because, as painful as it was, she hoped he felt the same way and was missing her too.

An hour later, when life was in full swing, Fiona was still sitting on the cold ground, wondering when someone who felt wronged by her would realize how vulnerable she was at the moment. There was music coming from her pocket and it was vibrating slightly. Figuring it was her current banker, Fiona fished he phone from her jeans and looked at the screen. A 305 area code. Not anyone that immediately came to mind. Assuming it must be important, Fiona answered the call.

"Hello," she said shortly and flatly. No emotion.

"Hello, this is the Ocean Mist Motel in Miami, Florida. There is a man in room 2 who was brought in two nights ago and has been passed out in his room ever since. We got worried and went looking for an emergency contact. He has this number listed as Fiona," a thickly accented voice spoke into the receiver.

For a second, Fiona couldn't say anything. "What does he look like?" she asked.

"Dark hair, handsome, bruises on his chest. Maybe tall," the woman replied.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," Fi said before hanging up. Sighing and standing up stiffly, Fi only had to step toward the curb and start to raise her hand when a cab descended upon her. She smiled a little at how Michael used to marvel at that. The taxi took her back to the Upper East Side where her current beau had left her his credit card to go shopping for the day. Smiling at how easy it would be, she bought her tickets to Miami for later that evening and took the card with her to go back to her loft and pack up. Everything was in a suitcase or ready to be shipped or with an associate ready to be smuggled within two hours. Her boxes of snowglobes would be dropped off at the post office of her choosing in Miami and a cab dropped her off at JFK to catch her flight. Before walking into the terminal, Fi sealed the credit card into an addressed and stamped envelope with a note that simply said, "Thanks," and she dropped it into a mailbox.

On the plane, Fiona was nervous and anxious. She still felt so alone, but maybe there was hope in Miami with Michael.

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**A/N: So the next one with probably be up after I'm done with finals since I will be home for winter break. I have up to 11 written, but I'd like to write 12 before I post 9 and so on. So I hope you understand, but I will try to get the next one up as soon as I can. Thanks for reading!**


	45. Secret 9: Run Away

**A/N:** This one is short, but it was one of my favorites to write. I would have had this posted like a week ago but a lot has happened since I tried ot come home for break. I was stuck in an airport for 13 hours and I sort of crashed for a couple of days and then there was Christmas. So now I have the time to post this and maybe I'll write the next one tomorrow night. I'm hoping to have the rest of this written and a new set started before I go back to school in mid-January.

I am going to start writing for a new set of prompts. I've decided to connect them into one longer fic and there are enough of them that I think I'll post them as one seperate fic. So be on the look out for that in the coming weeks. Thanks everyone for reading and reviewing. It really makes my day!

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Secret #9: "Sometimes all she wants to do is run away."

When Fiona was five, she ran away to the pond in her backyard, ignoring the calls of her brothers and parents for two hours until they found her. She had just wanted to play with the fishies by herself. When she was ten, she ran away to the park in the next town over to play with her friend. She was back before dark, but that didn't stop her brothers from freaking out. When she was fourteen, she ran away to a boy's car for a date that she hadn't told her brothers about. She was home by midnight, but they still yelled at her and threatened the boy. When she was eighteen, she ran away to join the IRA like her brothers and she didn't come home to her parents. When Blaine saw her assembling a bomb faster and with more precision than any girl he'd ever seen and most of the men he'd seen, he almost confronted her. Liam, though, stopped him. For once, she was running away to the right place.

Fourteen years later, she was running away from the IRA into Michael McBride's open arms and a gig as a freelance arms dealer. She knew it was where she was supposed to be, even if her brothers didn't. Years after that, she was running away to New York to escape Michael's memory. And not too long after that she was running away from her problems in New York to Michael in Miami.

She had been in Miami for four years now and sometimes she still felt that urge, that wish, to just turn her back on the place and get out of there for good. Of course, she'd tried that and it hadn't worked out so well for anyone involved. She tried to learn her lesson, but that didn't mean she never wanted to run away…

Sam walked into the loft unannounced as usual. "Have you seen Fiona?" he asked Michael, who was sitting at the workbench eating a yogurt and reading the newspaper.

He shook his head. "Not since yesterday. Why?"

"I can't find her and she's not answering her phone. She was supposed to come meet with a new client with me."

Long gone were the days when Michael had to force Sam and Fiona to work together. Now he was worried about her. What had the world come to?

"I might know where she is. Sometimes she just needs to run away," Michael said, not really explaining as he took the last bit of his yogurt and waved goodbye to Sam. He changed into a pair of shorts and sandals and went down the stairs to get in the Charger and drive off. It took him twenty minutes to get to where he was sure Fiona would be. There was a secluded, but public beach on the one of the keys that Fi liked to escape to every once in a while. It wouldn't be the first time he'd found her there by herself just watching the waves or reading a book or magazine. Sure enough, she was there, lying on a beach blanket and didn't even seem surprised when she heard the Charger pull up and park.

"Hi Michael," she said innocently as his shadow blocked her sun.

"Decided to run away for the day?" She nodded. "Mind if I join you?" She smiled and patted the empty spot next to her on the blanket. Fi decided that she liked this. Running away for the day with Michael was infinitely better than running away for the night with Tommy Donnelly.


	46. Secret 10: Dress Up

**A/N: **Hi there! I'm back! I wish I could have posted this sooner, but its taken me this long to get around to writing anything else. For some reason inspiration just was not forthcoming and college was getting in the way. Well, it was more like work and winter break got in the way. Now I have a little bit of free time to do some writing, but I of course got started on something else with that time. Shame on me. I get ADWD a lot (Attention Deficit Writing Disorder). Anyway, this one isn't too long, but I enjoy it and I can so relate to the secret (that boy is part of the reason I didn't have time, he was here for a weekend). Enjoy

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Secret #10: "I spend too much time thinking about things that will never happen and dressing up for the boy that will never care."_

Fiona Glenanne had never been the girl who dreamt of her wedding day and perfect man since she was a little girl. In fact, she had been quite opposed to those things for most of her life. Men were disposable, things to be used and thrown away, and weddings were for the weak women who needed a man to tell her what to do. Serious relationships were pointless, but flings were just enough.

Then she met Michael McBride and things changed. Suddenly she wanted something, someone forever. Daydreaming was no longer for the wistfully lonely; it was for the hopelessly in love. She could see a wedding, a house, kids maybe. Those dreams were doubtlessly impossible, but they were pleasant all the same.

She sighed, desperately trying to focus on the task at hand: a shape charge she was assembling on the dining room table of her flat. Her boyfriend, a necessity of her cover and someone whose feelings were leftover from long ago, was picking her up shortly so they could meet Michael and the rest of their small crew for a late night bank robbery. Zipping her tools and bomb into a small black duffel bag, Fi went back to her room to change.

Sliding int"o them with ease, Fiona dressed in a skin-tight pair of black jeans and a tight, long sleeved, black v-neck shirt. She zipped up a black fleece cargo vest and put on a strappy pair of black wedge heels. Anything the men could she could do just as well, if not better, and in five inch heels. She liked to think of herself as a modern day Ginger Rodgers, only with crime, not dancing. And she liked to think of Michael McBride as her Fred Astaire, but it was just a dream.

When Fi and McDougal, her boyfriend who preferred to be called Mac, arrived at the meet point, three blocks from the bank, the rest of them were already there. Michael was nonchalant about the slight lateness of their arrival and they quickly split into teams. Michael and Fiona were on retrieval and the rest of them dealt with breeching and guarding. Once inside the empty bank, the two of them were on their own. Honestly, Fiona preferred it that way. She would rather her audience be him than anyone else. Her shape charge had come in handy and they had gotten in and out without an issue and were on their way to the safe house with it before anyone was the wiser.

As she stared silently out the car window, Fiona sighed. She spent far too much thinking about the man to her right, thinking about things that would never happen, and dressing up for him when she was sure he would never care. Then, through the reflection on the glass, she saw his eyes rake across her frame very slowly and then pop back up to her face before he smiled and turned back to the road.

Maybe it wasn't a lost cause after all.

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"Ginger Rodgers did everything Fred Astaire did, but she did it backwards and in high heels." + Fiona = Reason women are awesome! Enough of that. lol Please drop me a line if you feel like it. Thank you so much for reading and keep an eye out for my separate prompt fic coming in like a month or so. I'm writing it now and I still don't know what it's going to be called, but it should be done soonish.


	47. Secret 11: With You Heart

**A/N: **So the last time I posted, I had actually written two chapters and I've just now gotten the chance to post this one as well. It's not very long, but I like this one. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy but it's not too mushy, at least in my opinion. I suppose this one involves a fight as well, but more tangentially than some of the other chapters.

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Secret #11: "Some things you can't see with your eyes, only with your heart."_

To the rest of the world it probably looked like they would kill each other if they were left alone in a room together, but Madeline knew better and so did Sam. They hadn't killed each other yet and they had a lot of years under their belts.

Michael and Fiona were sitting on opposite ends of Madeline's couch, having been put there by Sam, glaring at each other. They weren't arguing, just extremely irritated with each other. It had only taken Sam half an hour of coercion on each end to get what he assumed was the full story. Apparently, Fi had been at a gun deal that morning and Michael had called in the middle of it wondering where she was because they were supposed to have breakfast and she was almost an hour late. He was mad that she didn't tell him what she was doing and that she didn't call anyone for backup. She was mad because he didn't trust her to look after herself and because he could have cost her the entire sale.

Sighing at the apparent stalemate, Madeline looked over at Sam and raised her eyebrows. It was their _look_ in times like this that said "I don't think there's anything more for us to do." At that point, they both understood that Michael and Fiona would have to sort this out for themselves. Nodding slightly in agreement, they left the room. To any onlooker, as previously mentioned, this would seem like a death sentence for both of them. When the other two left the room, though, Michael sneaked a glance at Fi and the looked away quickly. Fiona let her eyes drift toward him and watched for only a second before turning back. Nothing their eyes could see told them anything, but they could feel it.

"I was worried about you," they said at the same time.

"I thought something had happened to you," Michael explained quietly.

With a little smile and a mirthless chuckle, Fiona replied, "I didn't want to be the reason you were involved in your hundredth felony since arriving in Miami."

They were still three feet away from each other and though they didn't seem as agitated as before, there was still a tension rippling through the air around them. No one else could see it, but in their hearts they knew. Michael reached his hand halfway into the space between them, palm up and waiting for her to fill it with hers. Fi lightly set her hand in his and he brought it to his lips and placed an impossibly soft kiss on her knuckles.

Down in her chest, her heart fluttered familiarly. It was no longer an uncomfortable sensation; in fact it was rather calming. This was love, not something you could see, but something that only your heart could truly feel. The feeling of Michael's lips breaking contact with her skin and his thumb rubbing across the tops of her fingers while the tip of his index finger traced the lines of her palm accentuated that feeling and told her that he felt the same. He could feel a warm weight settle inside of his chest. It was like a mug of hot chocolate on a freezing night in Ireland, warm and comfortable and familiar and something he never wanted to give up. Love.

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So there it was. I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave a review if you feel so inclined. And if you just want to enjoy some random fun, drop by my profile and check out my little fandom mixup that I am actually updating today because I didn't last time. But now I'm in Cog. Psych. and have the time to do so. =]


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